


Elementary, My Dear Obi-Wan

by Frostfyre7



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfyre7/pseuds/Frostfyre7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in London can get plenty interesting when Sherlock Holmes is hot on the trail of the dastardly Moriarty. Things take a bizarre turn, however, when Holmes and Watson intervene in a most unusual assassination attempt on a strangely dressed young man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elementary, My Dear Obi-Wan

**Author's Note:**

> This was my second completed fic (after another Star Wars one that, no, I will not be posting because it *sucks*). The fic itself was actually begun in...1999, I think, and completed in 2003 or so. So, yeah...a looong time ago. But still, I'm rather proud of it, all things considered.
> 
> Since I apparently neglected to divide it into actual, official chapters and I have no real desire to do so now...you get it all in one go. Sorry.

The sound of a door slamming and feet pounding up the stairway alerted me that my friend and erstwhile housemate, Sherlock Holmes, was returning home after a night of doing who knows what on the foggy streets of London. I had returned to our rooms at 221B Baker street from paying a call to my fiancée, Mary, the night before, to discover no sign whatsoever of Holmes. Though I am by no means the genius at deduction that he is, I came to the conclusion that he had found something entertaining to pursue, and promptly went to bed. I had long ago learned that sitting up and worrying would only cost me sleep and irritate Holmes. He hated sentiment, even of the brotherly sort.   
  
  
Now it was well after nine in the morning, and I was in Holmes’s cluttered study, enjoying an after-breakfast cup of tea Mrs. Hudson, our landlady and housekeeper, had brought up to me, and perusing the morning news. Having been alerted by the commotion on the stairs that Holmes had returned, I did not bother looking up from the paper as the door burst open.   
  
  
“He’s back, Watson!” my friend said enthusiastically. He was slightly winded, and as I looked up from my reading, I could see that he had forgotten his hat. His black hair was sticking up in spots, and this, combined with his sharp, prominent features and mostly black clothing, made him rather resemble a crow that had gotten caught on the wrong end of a windstorm.   
  
  
“Who is?” I asked, though I could only think of two ‘he’s’ off the top of my head that could get Holmes so worked up. One was his archenemy, Professor James Moriarty, and the other was Moriarty’s henchman, former spy Colonel Sebastian Moran. And though Moran was, in his own way, nearly as dangerous as Moriarty, Holmes’s obvious state of agitation made me place my money on Moriarty. He’d defeated Moran once, but only managed to foil Moriarty’s schemes thus far, and Holmes didn’t get this excited over someone he’d already beaten.   
  
  
Holmes flung his long frame into the wicker chair he favored and lounged as only Holmes can. He ceased resembling a wind-tossed crow and became a rumpled cat instead, grey eyes narrowed on some ineffable secret. “Oh, come now, Watson. Surely you can guess.”   
  
  
I sighed. There were days when it seemed to me that my whole purpose in Holmes’s life was as a whetstone on which to sharpen his wits. But at least this time I could be reasonably sure that my guess would be the correct one. “Moriarty?”   
  
  
“He has been spotted in Woking!” Holmes leaned over the side of his chair, rummaging through the accumulated clutter. After a moment, he emerged triumphantly with his pipe. Stuffing it with the vile shag he favored, he continued. “He’s keeping a very low profile. No doubt he has some new, nefarious scheme to hatch!” He sounded disgustingly excited about it. This, from a man who scoffs at the Whitechapel murders as ‘unimaginative’ and ‘boring’. It is little wonder that Scotland Yard is none too fond of him.   
  
  
“And you, of course, are going to foil it.” I shook out my paper, trying to look disinterested. As fascinating as Holmes’s adventures can be, and as much as I usually enjoyed them, I’d no desire to tangle with Professor Moriarty again. He was probably the one man on the planet I would cheerfully tie to a rock and toss into the Thames, and not feel a single twinge of remorse.   
  
  
“Of course,” Holmes replied, with that maddening arrogance of his. He lit his pipe and puffed contentedly at it for several moments. I did my best to ignore him. It was odd, but the times when I found him most insufferable were when he was on the high of a new challenge, or when he was at the very bottom of boredom, and consoling himself with his hypodermic needle. I hated boredom the worst, since it drove him to indulge in that vile habit of his, but when he was feeling arrogant he could be downright offensive.   
  
  
“Do you think you will catch him this time?”   
  
  
“We shall see.” His eyes were alight with the prospect of a challenging hunt.   
  
  
Sometimes, I wonder if he really _wants_ to catch Moriarty.

 

***

Holmes left a little while later, dressed as a singularly messy old beggar. I had noticed, over the years, that he tended to favor the elderly in his disguises. I’d asked him about it once over dinner, and he’d explained: “My features lend themselves far better to age than youth, Watson. Also, people tend to dismiss the elderly, and that can be a great advantage. And,” he added a little irritably, “I make an _extremely_ ugly young woman.”   
  
  
“That hasn’t stopped you before,” I had murmured, recalling a particularly appalling evening gown and hairpiece stashed among his disguises.   
  
  
“But people remember a very ugly young lady, Watson. I’d rather not use that too much. Better to be an ugly _old_ lady, or an old man. In all honesty, I prefer being an old man. Until they invent more comfortable clothing for women, I’d rather not disguise myself as one too often.”   
  
Dinner conversations with Holmes are so interesting.   
  
  
After I had seen my friend off, I finished my paper, and went downstairs to see if I could wheedle some lunch from Mrs. Hudson. She was a short, plump woman of indeterminate age, kind-faced and cheerful, with warm blue eyes and a full head of silvering blonde hair. She mothered Holmes and I indiscriminately, though it drove my friend to distraction. He hated people being protective of him. As for myself, I found her endearing. She reminded me of my own mother, God rest her soul.   
  
  
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” she greeted me as I entered the kitchen. Her hands were covered in flour from the bread dough she was kneading. “Mr. Holmes is off again, I see.”   
  
  
Holmes would have left through the back door in the kitchen. It would have been extremely odd for a grungy old vagrant to be seen leaving through the front. “Yes. It seems that Professor Moriarty has been spotted in London.”   
  
  
She frowned a little. “The Professor? Well, now, that can’t be good. I suppose this means Mr. Holmes will be keeping late hours again.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “And here I was just getting used t’ having a full night’s sleep.”   
  
  
“Don’t worry yourself, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes is perfectly capable of handling himself.” I didn’t sound convincing even to myself.  
  
  
“Ha,” she said scornfully. “And he’ll no doubt be dragging you along with him soon.”   
  
  
I hadn’t thought of that. I would have to speak to Mary, so she wouldn’t be upset with me if she didn’t see me as often over the next few weeks as she did now. She knew what Holmes was like; I was certain she’d understand. All the same, I found myself fervently hoping that if Moriarty really was in London that Holmes could find and stop him quickly. I was fonder these days of domesticity than I was of crawling through London’s seamy underbelly.   
  
  
***

  
Holmes returned later that afternoon, and I could see immediately from the rigid set of his features that he was troubled about something. Knowing that he would be impossible until he’d gotten it out of his system, I immediately asked what was wrong. He snarled at me for a few minutes, no doubt hoping to start a fight, but when he realized that he wasn’t going to get a rise from me he relented.   
  
  
“I spoke to Mycroft this afternoon. His people have been keeping an eye on Moriarty for some time.”   
  
  
I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know your brother’s, ah, office was watching the Professor.”   
  
  
“Neither did I,” Holmes growled. “It appears that Sebastian Moran was once in the employ of the Foreign Office. During Afghanistan,” he added with a meaningful look at me. As if on cue, my shoulder twinged. “And now that he’s working for Moriarty, it seems that the Professor is suddenly taking an interest in things political.” He steepled his fingers, resting his chin lightly on their tips. “I shudder to think what would happen if Moriarty ever got his hands on state secrets. Or someone with real power.” Holmes frowned, and I could fairly hear the gears in his mind whirring. “I wonder if that’s what he’s after—perhaps he’s looking for a hold on someone in the Cabinet. He certainly isn’t above blackmail.”   
  
  
_Neither are you_ , I thought, but did not say it aloud. It disturbed me, sometimes, how very much Moriarty and Holmes were alike. If it were not for Holmes’s deep love of humanity I would not have been surprised if he had become another James Moriarty. They were both brilliant far beyond the ken, not overly troubled by scruples, and driven by their brilliance to be the best. Fortunately for Holmes, he sought to be the best criminal investigator, not the best criminal, and he allowed his relative casualness about certain laws to be governed by an underlying set of unshakeable morals. Moriarty, from what I had seen, had no such compunctions. He also had been around far longer than Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had turned thirty-three earlier in the year, though he looked older, and I had placed Moriarty to be of Holmes’s father’s generation. He had experience on his side.   
  
  
“Is Mycroft going to help?”   
  
  
“Not actively,” Holmes said with a wry smile. Holmes claimed Mycroft was far smarter than he ever dreamed of being. I was inclined to believe this, simply because Holmes was never humble about anything concerning his abilities. Otherwise, the two brothers could not have been more different. While Holmes was constantly driven to _do_ things, almost to the point of being hyper, Mycroft was the laziest man I’d ever met. He was enormously fat, and more often than not preferred to stay either at his apartments or his club and direct the efforts of his underlings from a comfortable armchair. He was officially some sort of accountant, but I had learned quickly that his ‘accounting’ had very little to do with money and a great deal to do with international relations. His ‘firm’ was barely even known to the Foreign Office, it seemed, and one of his duties was to keep an eye on _them_. A guardian for the guardians, as it were. “He’d rather have me do his work for him,” Holmes continued. “I suppose I don’t mind, but this time he’s not going to get it for free.”   
  
  
I blinked. “You’re going to make your own brother pay you for the privilege of chasing a man you would chase anyway? And you don’t think Mycroft won’t know that?”   
  
  
Holmes flashed me one of his rare, genuine grins, transforming his ascetic features. “Oh, Mycroft knows, and it’s irritating him to no end. But he’ll pay me, because he knows he owes me. I pulled his fat—if you’ll excuse the rather crude term—out of the fire a few years ago. He may be smarter than I, but his laziness gets him into trouble every now and then.”   
  
  
I shook my head, smiling. “He’s not going to speak to you for months.”   
  
  
“Oh, he’ll reconcile himself to it soon enough, especially if I catch Moriarty. Though he may not forgive me for not letting him have the credit, like I usually do.” He peeled off his fake nose and dropped it absently into his beggar’s cap. “I’m going to go clean up, Watson, and then you and I are going out for a walk.”   
  
  
“I don’t suppose it’s social?” I asked, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach.   
  
  
“That depends on how you define ‘social’, my friend.” He paused in the doorway. “Bring your revolver.”

 

***

Woking, compared to, say, Whitechapel, isn't all that bad. Lower middle class, as it were. It could be dangerous at night, though, and I kept my hand in my coat pocket as Holmes and I walked down the street. My old Army revolver was a comforting weight.   
  
  
It was not yet full dark, and there were still a number of people out and about in the chill autumn twilight. Hansom cabs and carriages clattered over the damp cobblestones as people returned home from work or those with more money passed through on their way to parties and other entertainments. As an open carriage full of brightly dressed young women and their escorts passed I found my thoughts wandering toward my upcoming nuptials. Mary still wanted my opinion on linens for the wedding breakfast. I'd initially told her that it didn't really matter to me one way or another what the linens looked like, but she'd become so put out with me for some reason that I had agreed to help. I wondered if I could use Holmes and Moriarty as an excuse for getting out of it, then dismissed it hastily. I would have to have a death wish if I were stupid enough to put _that_ to my fiancée.   
  
  
A small noise from Holmes drew me from my thoughts. The street was nearly empty now. He'd slowed his pace, and caught my sleeve as I drew ahead of him. "Over there, in that doorway." A small jerk of his head indicated which doorway. Trying not to appear too obvious, I looked.   
  
  
At first all I could make out was a vague person-shape in the deepening shadows. Initially, I thought it was a woman, for the figure was heavily draped in something flowing. Then it moved, and I realized that it was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be any such thing. A man, then, but very strangely dressed. The flowing drapery appeared to be some sort of robe, dark and unidentifiable in the poor light. I caught a glimmer of pale fabric underneath as he moved. "What is it?" I asked Holmes softly.   
  
  
He shook his head. "I'm not certain. But he's being stalked." A flick of his eyes, and I noticed another shape, standing very still in the heavily shaded mouth of a nearby alley. As far as I could tell, this one was more conventionally dressed.   
  
  
"What are we going to do?" I hissed.   
  
  
"Nothing, for the moment." He drew me to the side, into the shadows of another doorway. "Just watch. I want to see this play out."   
  
  
"But Holmes, if that man doesn't know he's being—being stalked, as you put it, shouldn't we—"   
  
  
"He knows he's being watched," my friend said softly. For once, I forbore asking him how he knew that and turned my attention to the robed man. After a moment, I thought I understood. There was a furtive tension in his movements that suggested all was not well.   
  
  
It was like watching a drama, so captivating was the tableau, but it was not a comfortable one. The knowledge that it was real, and not knowing what was going to happen was maddening. After a long moment, the robed man moved at a half-run towards the other side of the street, his hand darting beneath his robe.  
  
  
Another movement caught my eye. The second man had withdrawn a strange object that looked vaguely like a pistol, though it was unlike any gun I'd ever seen. He raised his arm, and I felt Holmes stiffen beside me. I, too, tensed, ready to distract the armed stranger.   
  
  
The other man seemed to sense the threat; he turned as he neared the street corner, and started to draw his hand out of his robe. Without warning, a carriage rounded the corner. I could hear the driver's curses clearly as he hauled back on the reins, trying to avoid running down the man standing in the street. The horse reared with a ringing cry. The robed man turned to see this new danger, and a flash of green light coupled with a strange whine flared from the alley. The man in the street staggered forward, the horse's front hooves barely missing his skull, and fell heavily to the ground. The driver just managed to twist his animal to the side so it would not crush the fallen figure. The horse squealed in pain and protest, and the noise was like a catalyst. It was as though we had been frozen in place before, but now Holmes darted forward. I moved as well, but towards the fallen man, while my friend took off at a long-legged run towards the alleyway.   
  
  
I could see that the driver gotten down from the cab and was hovering near the still form on the cobblestones. "Don't touch him!" I shouted as the driver bent over the man. He jerked back at my authoritative command as though burned.  
  
I dropped to one knee on the grimy stones, wishing that I'd thought to bring my bag with me. A quick examination told me that he had, fortunately, broken neither neck, back, nor skull in the fall, and that it was safe to turn him over. He had a deep gash on his forehead, and a bruise was already darkening his left cheekbone. I checked his pulse, and ran my hands over his legs, arms, and ribs. The thick layers of clothing made a thorough examination difficult, but I doubted that he had done more than crack a few ribs.   
  
  
The wound in his shoulder, however, was another matter. It looked more like a burn than a wound, raw and ugly. At least it was mostly cauterized, and the bleeding was minimal. I had seen far, far worse in Afghanistan.   
  
  
"It was an accident, guv'nor!" the cabby gasped. I spared him little more than a glance. "'E's-'e's all right, ain't he?"   
  
  
"He's been shot," I said shortly.   
  
"Shot! I didn't–"   
  
  
"I know that," I snapped. "Please be quiet."  


“Is—is ‘e dead?” the driver asked in a very small voice.

 

“No, but he’s hurt pretty badly.” I wrinkled my nose at the smell of burnt flesh and cloth.  What the devil would have produced a wound like that? I’d seen flash burns caused by gunpowder and the like in my career, but those were all the result of close contact.

 

 

Holmes returned, slightly breathless.  “I lost him,” he said grimly.  “Whoever he was, Watson, he knew what he was about. I could find no trace of him." He looked down at the unconscious man. "We should take him back to Baker Street. You can treat him, and I can discover what that little drama was about.”   


“Very well. My good man,” I said, and drew the driver’s horrified gaze from the unconscious man to meet my eyes.  “Help me load him into your carriage.”

 

The cabby complied, muttering worriedly beneath his breath the whole time about misfortune and the wrath of God and so on.  I ignored him.  Holmes, however, quickly grew impatient.

 

"Come, Watson. My shoulder blades are starting to itch. I don't like presenting myself as a target, and in this neighborhood that is a very likely possibility. Oh, for Heaven’s sake, man, pull yourself together!"  This last remark he addressed, rather unkindly, to the poor driver, who was wringing his hands as I arranged my new patient on the carriage seat.   
  
He was quite young, and I gathered that this was the first time he'd almost killed someone. Feeling sorry for him, I tried to calm him down, but it took a few chilling threats from Holmes before the man got a hold of himself enough to drive.  At last, however, we were off, leaving behind the shadows and secrets of Woking.

 

***

221B Baker Street was a welcome and comforting sight to me as we pulled up to the curb.  I paid the cabby, adding in a few extra shillings and suggesting the man go and get himself a stiff drink.  He gave me a grateful, wavering smile and clattered off, leaving Holmes and I to carry the stranger up the front steps to the door.. He was far heavier than he looked.   
  
  
Mrs. Hudson opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise as she took in the strange little party on the doorstep. "Oh, good heavens!" Her tone was less an expression of shock than it was exasperation. She has had any number of strange people in varying stages of health intruding upon her territory for years. I think she left the capacity to be shocked behind a long time ago. "Bring 'im in! No, Mr. Holmes, don't you dare put 'im in the parlor! I just cleaned it. No, no, take 'im to the guest room." She put her hands on her hips and glared fiercely at him as he balked at carrying the deadweight up the steep, narrow stairs. "Don't you give me that look, Mr. Holmes. I'll not have 'im bleeding on my parlor furniture!"   
  
  
Holmes looked for a moment as though he would argue, but after a look at the set of her jaw decided that discretion was the better part of valour. We meekly hauled our heavy load up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson following. We laid the man carefully on the bed, and I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring my bag up to me. She towed Holmes out with her, ordering him to the kitchen to start boiling water, a past time I invented years ago to keep him out of my way when I was treating an unconscious patient. In this case, I really did need the water, as I intended to make a poultice for my patient's shoulder. His protests were firmly ignored and in the end he meekly shuffled off to do as ordered while I turned my attention to the man lying on the bed.  
  
His clothing was more peculiar than it had looked in the dim light at Woking: a long, voluminous brown robe of what felt like soft wool, and underneath, a cream colored tunic and tabard belted over trousers of a slightly darker shade. The clasp of the belt was a curious piece of work, and it took me a moment to figure out the mechanism. The belt's chief adornment was a long cylinder wrought of some metal with odd protrusions on it. I'd never seen anything like it, and I examined it closely before setting it carefully aside with the belt wrapped around it.   
  
  
Once I had him stripped to the waist, I saw why he had been so heavy: the man was solid muscle. I wondered what his profession could be, to keep him in such excellent shape. I hadn’t looked like that even at the height of my army career.  I hadn’t even come close, if I were perfectly honest, having been endowed with a shape that might be kindly referred to as ‘stocky.’    
  
Mrs. Hudson returned with my things, and I set to work on the young man's shoulder. He did not stir even when I poked the wound roughly. He wasn't very old, not much more than twenty, but there were scars on his arms and torso that suggested a less than peaceful life. His features were regular, even handsome, with broad cheekbones and a deep cleft in his chin. His hair was even more outlandish than his robes. Cut short all over, it stood up like a light brown brush, save for a longer section that had been gathered into a stubby tail at the back of his skull, and a long braid wrapped at intervals with red and yellow thread that fell over his right shoulder. I wondered if he were a member of some strange religious order.   
  
There was really very little I could do for the wound in his shoulder until Holmes returned with the water other than clean it and dress it lightly with gauze. There was bruising appearing along his sides, confirmation that he had indeed cracked a rib or two. With Mrs. Hudson’s capable help I wrapped his chest tightly in bandages and we settled him back down into the bed.   
  
  
Holmes arrived in due course with the water, and I began steeping material for a poultice. When it was prepared and cooled I would put it on my patient's shoulder. Holmes, holding up the wall next to the door, watched me work in unusual silence. When I set aside the poultice to cool, he finally broke the quiet. "Would you object if I were to borrow his clothes?"   
  
  
Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. “And what would you be thinkin’ of doing with the poor boy’s clothing, Mister Homes?!  Can’t you leave the poor thing in peace?” She sounded unusually upset at this suggestion.  But then, Mrs. Hudson’s ideas of what was right and proper were somewhat different that my friend’s.  
  
He curled his lip at her. "I wish to know more about our unusual guest, madam, and as he is not currently available...”  
  
Sensing a fight brewing, I interceded. "I'm more interested in the weapon that caused this," I said, gesturing to the bandaged shoulder. "I swear I saw a green light in that alley when the attacker fired, and I've never seen a gun that causes a wound like this."   
  
Holmes immediately forgot his irritation in the face of an even more fascinating question. "Perhaps some sort of experimental weapon?" he mused, and veered dangerously close to the wound in question.  Belatedly, I realized that I had only served to focus his curiosity on something I wanted him to leave be for the time being.  


"Perhaps the young man can tell us himself when he wakes up." I suggested hastily.  “Don’t poke at it, Holmes, I just cleaned it.  Content yourself with telling us what you’ve observed about him for now,” I added, letting a hint of steel creep into my voice to let Holmes know I would not be moved on this.   
  
He studied my patient, his grey eyes taking on that calculating expression I knew so well. All traces of annoyance disappeared. "He's twenty years old, right handed, meticulous in the care of his clothing." I saw Holmes fingering a minute repair in the robes. "He is a swordsman–see the calluses on his hands? Though not fencing. Perhaps one of the Oriental forms I'm not familiar with." He paused, frowning.   
  
  
"What’s his nationality?" Mrs. Hudson asked softly.   
  
  
Holmes blew out his breath in frustration. "I am not certain," he admitted reluctantly. "I'll know more when I've had a chance to speak with him. Meanwhile, if you need me, Watson, I shall be in my study. I want to take a closer look at his robes. Tell me the moment he wakes up." With a curt nod to Mrs. Hudson he strode out of the room.   
  
  
"He hasn't eaten yet," Mrs. Hudson lamented. "Ah, well. I'll bully 'im into it later. You must be starving, though, Dr. Watson," she said warmly to me. "It’s been ages since tea.  Shall I go and fix you somethin’?”

 

I nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be wonderful.” She bobbed at me and exited, leaving me alone with the mysterious young man.

 

***

I had made plans for that evening to dine again with Mary, and to discuss the mysteries of wedding details. However, I felt that I could not in good conscience leave my patient, so I recruited one of the Baker Street Irregulars to take her a message bearing my regrets. I sent the ragged little boy off, feeling horribly guilty about my feelings of relief at not having to discuss linens and worry about making the wrong choice. Mary was usually the most levelheaded of women, but there was something about women and weddings…shaking my head, I went back inside.   
  
Mrs. Hudson met me in the foyer and announced that she had left my dinner on the sideboard and that she was going to bed. I thanked her, went to the dining room to wolf down the food, and then went to check on my patient.   
  
  
He was quiet—too quiet, I thought. He had been unconscious for well over three hours now, and showed no signs of awakening. Head injuries were strange things, and though his hadn’t seemed all that serious, there was no telling how it had affected him. Since there wasn’t anything I could do anyway, I resolved to go see how Holmes was coming with his investigation. As I turned to go, something caught my eye near the bed. I leaned over and discovered it was the young man’s belt, with the strange cylinder still attached to it. Odd, I had been almost certain that I had placed it on the dresser across the room, and yet here it was, all but hidden beneath the guest bed’s dust ruffle. Knowing that Holmes would certainly want to study it, I retrieved it and headed down the hall to his study.   
  
  
I paused outside the door to listen. It was quiet inside, and there were no strange smells emanating from within. I’d learned long ago not to simply barge in on Holmes when he was working. Back when I’d first become his flat-mate, I had entered the study without warning just as he was completing a delicate chemical experiment. The resulting explosion had shattered the room’s windowpanes and left the room in such a mess that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t spoken to either of us for a week. Since then, I’d exercised caution before entering the room. I knocked, waited a long moment for a reply, and when I got none I opened the door and went in.   
  
Holmes was seated in his basket chair, absently toying with his pipe and staring off into space. For a moment, I feared that he had succumbed yet again to the temptation of his seven percent solution, the relaxed as I realized that his eyes, though distant, held none of the cloudy lassitude common to his cocaine use. All the same, he was very deep in thought, and I had to say his name three times before he finally lifted his gaze to me.  
  
  
“Has he woken up yet?” he asked immediately.   
  
  
“No. I’m getting a little worried. But that’s not why I’m here. I thought you might want to see this.” I extended the belt and it’s strange burden to him.   
  
  
“Hello. What’s this?”   
  
  
“I’ve no idea. I noticed it earlier, when I was undressing him. Interesting, isn’t it?”   
  
  
He eagerly relieved me of my burden, rising and going to one of the wall-sconces. “I don’t recognize this alloy. And the workmanship—so unusual!” He unclipped the belt from it, letting it drop carelessly to the floor as he turned the cylinder over and over in his hands, his sensitive fingers running over its surface. “This seems to be the business end,” he said, tapping one of its ends.  It looked like a small, concave disc with what looked like a lens or stone of some kind set into its center.  “Whatever it’s business may be. And this,” he pointed to a small round protrusion, “looks like a button.”   
  
  
“Holmes, do you really think you should push that? We’ve no idea what it is, or what it does.”   
  
  
“Come, Watson. Where’s your curiosity?” He grinned at me.   
  
  
I shuffled my feet uneasily, recognizing and disliking that all-too-familiar expression on his angular face. “Right where it should be,” I replied stoutly. “Firmly behind common sense.”   
  
  
He sneered amiably at me and his finger moved over the supposed button…

  
The sounds of pounding feet on the stairs in the hall made both of us start. Holmes turned swiftly toward the door as it burst open, admitting a small ragged figure. I recognized Billy, one of Holmes’s more enthusiastic Baker Street Irregulars. “Mister ‘olmes, sir!” he gasped. “I got a message for you!” He held out a grubby, much-folded paper.   
  
  
Holmes took it, the curious cylinder forgotten, his eyes taking in the note’s contents at a glance. “Ha! It appears, Watson, that one of my shadier sources of information has decided to talk to me.” At my puzzled look, he explained. “I was stonewalled earlier today when I went looking for information about Moriarty. Apparently, he has been quite liberal with his threats. Not to be outdone, I let it be known that I would pay handsomely for information. Now it seems that a fish has taken the bait. Here, Billy. Go wake Mrs. Hudson; she’ll get you something to eat.” He flipped a coin at the boy, who caught it with a grin and darted out again. Holmes added the note to the stack of papers cluttering the mantle, pinning it down again with the dagger he kept there for that purpose.   
  
  
“You’re going to meet this fellow? Tonight?”   
  
  
“No time like the present, Watson.” He went into his ‘dressing’ room, and I could hear him rummaging about inside.   
  
  
“Do you want me to come along?”   
  
  
“No, no. You stay here and keep an eye on our other mystery. I won’t be back until very late.” He emerged, wearing shabby clothing and holding a cloth cap in one hand.   
  
  
“Be careful, Holmes.”   
  
  
He smiled. “Always, Watson.”

 

***

No doubt Watson will be put out with me for usurping what he sees as his sole domain as the chronicler of my 'adventures', as he so inaccurately calls them. I feel, however, that some facts require a first hand accounting. This will also prevent my associate from embellishing the situation, as he is so wont to do, particularly when taking it from a second hand account. The whole incident was bizarre enough without Watson getting his hands on it.   
  
  
After leaving Baker Street, I walked a few blocks south before hailing a hansom to take me to the riverdocks. The driver gave my rough clothing an alarmed look, and insisted I pay him in advance. Falling into character, I swore affably at him, ignoring the sneer that had taken up residence on his face, and counted out the coins.   
  
The night had grown chill, and the insidious fog had crept up from the Thames to blanket the city, mingling with the soot from factories and homes. I had the cab driver stop well before we reached the docks. A character of my class would hardly be wasting money on a hansom, and to be seen arriving in one on the docks would not only weaken my cover, but also mark me as a target for robbery. Despite Watson's opinion, I do not go out of my way to seek trouble.   
  
  
Pulling the battered oilskin coat closer about me, I stood on the street corner until the hansom was out of sight. Moriarty had a reach longer than mine, and I would not put it past him to find the one driver in all of London who had seen my destination. Once I was certain he would not see me make for the river, I tugged my cap lower over my eyes and shuffled off to my destination, a seedy swill-bucket of a pub with the colorful name The Roll in the Hay.   
  
  
The Roll was famous for its brawls, which the local constabulary could do nothing about, (and usually wouldn't take money to try) and its singularly disgusting atmosphere. Run by a huge woman named Hilde, who was taller than I was and twice Mycroft's size, its reputation made it an ideal place for shady dealings. I personally find it fascinating, though Watson does _not_ need to know that. I had made certain never to place myself in a position where I had to take him to the Roll. Some things really do not need published in _The Strand_ , and Watson has never quite learned when to stop.   
  
  
My contact was a man I knew as Rat. I found his pseudonym uncreative and clichéd, but as he wasn't interested in my opinion of it, I kept it to myself. He was waiting for me at a stained, rickety table near the back, where Half-Ton Hilde, as she was known behind her back, was busy muscling a small fight off her bar. She was in her forties, an immigrant from Germany, ambidextrous, and fairly well educated, though she concealed that fact well. She had never been married, though she had four children, one deaf, and had a deep dislike for me.  She was half-convinced I was a policeman. It was her policy not to get involved with her patrons' business, however, so she kept her opinions to herself. I was greeted with a venomous glare from her as I stepped up to my informer's table.   
  
  
Rat pushed a tankard across the grimy surface to me. I took it, feigning to take a swill. I am not so unwise as to actually _drink_ anything from the Roll.  I wouldn’t put it past Rat to do something to it—and if not he, then Hilde certainly was capable.  "You're late," Rat snarled, with what he apparently thought was a threatening glower.   
  
  
Rat, I might mention, has delusions of grandeur. He's a petty, American-born thief who's read far too many yellow-back spy novels, and fancies himself mysterious and dangerous. Hence the dramatic name. His image was spoiled somewhat by the weak, rabbitish face, myopic squint, and noticeable paunch. A snarl, for Rat, was more of a whine. Still, he got around, having spent time in Germany, France, Hungary, and Bohemia before washing up in London.  
  
  
"You sure you weren't followed?" he continued.   
  
  
I raised an eyebrow at him. "No games tonight, Rat."   
  
  
He blinked, a little startled at my bluntness. "Money first."   
  
  
"Half," I said curtly, placing a five pound note on the table. "Now talk."   
  
  
He grabbed the money and hunched lower in his seat, his twitching nose heightening his rabbity appearance. Darting a nervous glance around the noisy room, he said: "Let's go outside."   
  
  
I sighed. Rat would not be deterred from playing cloak and dagger. "All right." Knowing he would insist I pay for the drinks, I rose and flipped a coin at Hilde. She caught it with a scowl, and I sneered back as I followed my dramatist snitch outside.   
  
  
He scuttled around the pub's corner, into a narrow alley that smelled slightly better than the Roll's interior. I could not approve of his choice, as my shoulder blades began to itch the moment the shadows closed around us. "Enough of this," I snapped. "Talk, or I take my money and go elsewhere."   
  
  
Rat shrugged, wiping his nose. "Word is the fella you're lookin' for has made some friends."   
  
  
"That's not surprising," I said in my most withering tones, dropping most of my lower class accent. Rat didn't know precisely who I was, but he knew I wasn't a dockworker. "He always makes contacts with the underworld wherever he is."   
  
  
"Word is, these ain't kosher underworld."   
  
I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"   
  
  
He shrugged again, a truly irritating habit I believe he picked up during his tenure in France. He'd brought home more than a French-cut sailor's coat. "Nobody's ever seen 'em before. They're strange, got strange stuff."   
  
  
It was like pulling teeth. "Such as?" I hissed through gritted teeth, jingling the money in my pocket pointedly.   
  
  
"I don't know rightly. Gossip is that they gave your guy's group some sorta weird weapon."   
  
  
A warning bell went off in my head, and I called up an image of the earlier scene in Woking. A link between Moriarty and the other enigma currently unconscious in my guest bedroom? It seemed  rather a large coincidence. "Can you be more specific?"   
  
  
Rat opened his mouth, but no reply came. A strange gurgling noise came from his mouth, and his hands shot up to clutch at his throat. Alarmed, I grabbed him as he toppled forward, jerking. He shuddered a final time, and was still. I knew the answer, but I checked for a heartbeat anyway. He was dead. I searched him swiftly, a sense of growing unease rising as I found no sign whatsoever of what killed him. He had choked to death, and yet there was nothing I could find that might have caused it. There was nothing lodged in his throat, no poison tipped darts. I suspected poison in his drink, but there was no swelling of his throat or tongue, or residue of any other sort, that indicated such. If it _was_ poison, it was none I'd ever seen, that killed so subtly and left no trace.   
  
  
Suddenly feeling eyes on me, I rose, scanning the darkness surrounding me. The sound of footsteps—a large man wearing heavy-soled boots, with a slight limp—came to me through the fog. Stepping over Rat's body, I half-ran toward the sound, but it vanished into the night. Swearing softly under my breath and feeling it prudent to leave the docks as quickly as humanly possible, I left my unfortunate snitch where he was and made for the nearest street where I could call a cab. Watson would call me callous, for leaving the dead man there like that, but I saw little point in drawing attention to myself. There was nothing I could do for Rat now but find out who killed him. It was possible he had died naturally—I would ask Watson about it—but I believed otherwise.   
  
  
It took me over an hour to find a cab, and it was well after three in the morning before I once again reached 221b Baker Street. I was surprised to see a light still burning in the upper window. I paid my driver, neglecting to tip him, and took the steps up to the door two at a time. It opened before I could touch the knob, and Watson stood silhouetted in the doorframe, the tense set of his sturdy frame telling me a great deal. "You're troubled about something," I observed, moving past him into the foyer. It was poorly lit by a single candle, but I could see the concerned expression on my friend's round, hearty features. "What has happened?"   
  
  
"I think you'd better come upstairs with me," he said, turning to precede me.   
  
  
It was something to do with our 'guest', I was certain. Watson's expression was that of the worried/concerned doctor, not the baffled this-is-your-area-of-expertise-Holmes. I busied myself with removing my coat and hat as I followed him, and dumped them beside the guest bedroom door as Watson opened it for me, allowing me to enter before him. The lamp was turned up, filling the room with warm light. I turned my gaze to the form on the bed, and saw immediately what had alarmed Watson.   
  
  
"Dear heaven," I could not help myself exclaiming softly. "How is that possible?"

 

***

It was one of the few times in my life I had ever seen Sherlock Holmes startled enough to make an unguarded comment. It had taken me a long night of observation to notice the change in our guest, but Holmes, with his near-inhuman skills of observation, had noticed almost instantly.   Of course, he’d also last seen the man hours earlier, and left.  The change by now was dramatic indeed.  
  
  
When we had brought the young man in hours earlier, I had judged from the relative seriousness of his injuries that he would be days, if not weeks, in recovering. Yet in the short space from the time we brought him in and now, the gash on his forehead had healed to a white scar that would vanish in time, and the bruising on his face had faded almost to nothing.   
  
  
Glancing at me for permission, Holmes crossed to the bed and carefully lifted the gauze pad I had placed on my patient's shoulder. His breath hissed sharply through his teeth as he saw what had most disturbed me. The wound, though not so well healed as the other injuries, was nonetheless in far better condition. It now looked days, not hours, old.   
  
  
Replacing the gauze, Holmes lifted his gaze to mine. "Well, Watson," he said with a trace of black humour, "You are either a miracle worker who has been keeping secrets from me, or this young man is an unusually fast healer."   
  
"Not 'unusually', Holmes. Unnaturally."   
  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "Superstitions, Watson? Come, now. Surely there is another explanation."   
  
  
Nettled by his mockery, I folded my arms stubbornly. "Very well then. You explain it, Holmes."   
  
  
The corner of his mouth quirked, the only apology I would get for his catty remark. "I don't think I can, Watson," he admitted, sinking into the chair I'd placed next to the bed. He looked suddenly weary, his grey eyes troubled. The soot and street-grime brought the spare lines of his face into sharp, unkind relief. Black hair, usually neatly slicked back, fell over his forehead. He looked as though he had just spent the past several hours dragging himself face down on London streets. Suddenly remembering where he had gone, and knowing Holmes as I did, that was a likely possibility.   
  
  
"Your meeting didn't go well," I hazarded.   
  
  
He smiled thinly, humourlessly. "You might say that. In fact, that would be stating it mildly."   
  
  
"The contact wouldn't give you the information?"   
  
  
"He...died." It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took me a moment to comprehend his meaning.   
  
  
"What—dead? How?"   
  
  
Briefly, Holmes outlined the events of his evening. Though his voice was level, even cool, the look in his eyes told me he was deeply worried by the strange events. When he finished, I sat silent for a long moment, contemplating what he had told me. My gaze wandered to the man on the bed. I had to agree with Holmes; a link between Moriarty and our young guest seemed awfully coincidental.   
  
  
As if on cue, the young man stirred for the first time all night. Holmes came alert like a hound on point, all weariness and concern forgotten. I straightened from my position against the doorframe, and moved closer to the bedside. Blue-green eyes opened in the pale face, staring unfocused at the bed's canopy for a long moment. Then he blinked once, twice, and turned his head to look me directly in the face. Though still cloudy from his long unconsciousness, I found his direct, penetrating glance a little unsettling. It was a great deal like Holmes's, when he was measuring someone to analyze, and yet there was a subtle difference to it that I could not put my finger on. Somehow, that indefinable quality made it even more unnerving than Holmes's.   
  
  
"Where am I?" he asked softly. His voice was a light baritone, husky still from sleep, and laced with an accent that seemed at once an odd mix of British and Scottish and something else entirely.   
  
  
"Baker Street," Holmes supplied, "in London."   
  
  
There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes as he turned to look at my friend. "Do you remember your name?" I inquired gently.   
  
  
He looked back to me. "Yes."   
  
  
I saw Holmes's mouth twitch as he suppressed a smile. He admired people who never gave extraneous information. "What is your name?" he asked.   
  
  
The silence stretched out. Finally, the young man seemed to relax, and he let out a soft breath. I had the strangest feeling that Holmes and I had just passed some sort of test. "My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi," he replied at last.   
  
  
I glanced at Holmes, hoping he could shed some light on the origins of the strange name. All I got, however, was a slight shrug. For once, Sherlock Holmes was as much in the dark as I was about our unusual guest. "I am Doctor John Watson," I said "And this is my friend and associate Sherlock Holmes."   
  
  
Holmes, never one for polite small talk, leaned forward. "What were you doing on that street in Woking? And who was that man hunting you?"   
  
  
Kenobi's hand stole towards his shoulder, and he winced a little. "I don't know where Woking is."   
  
"You are not from London. Or England," Holmes said.   
  
  
If the young man was startled by Holmes's knowledge, he gave no sign. "No. I am from somewhat...further away." There was a note of finality in his voice that told us further questions on the subject would not be answered.   
  
  
"Why did that man shoot you?" Holmes would not be deterred.   
  
  
"Why are you so determined to know?" Kenobi shot back, and for a moment his almost unnatural control slipped, revealing a personality more fitting to a twenty-year old.   
  
  
Holmes spread his hands. "I am a consulting detective, Mr. Kenobi. It's my business to know such things."   
  
  
Obi-Wan Kenobi eyed him for another long moment. "I suppose, then, Master Holmes, that you and I are somewhat in the same business then." He sighed and settled more comfortably against the pillows. "My master and I came to London looking for a thief. He had stolen something from an important..." he hesitated, seeming to search for an appropriate word. "...shipbuilder. Plans for a new design."   
  
  
Holmes quirked an eyebrow. "You are not telling me everything, but no matter. Why are these plans so important that he would kill to keep them?"   
  
  
"Plans for a weapon are always important, Master Holmes."   
  
  
"Ah." My friend steepled his long fingers. "He must be expecting to receive a great deal of money, if he is willing to attempt murder."   
  
  
Kenobi's young face darkened a little. "He has already killed. And my master believes there is more to this than money."   
  
  
"That's the second time you've used that phrase. Are you an apprentice? Rather an archaic notion. Is that why you wear your hair in such an...unusual fashion?"   
  
Our guest touched the thin braid lying on his shoulder, interest entering his eyes. "You are an observant man, sir."   
  
  
"One tries," Holmes said with uncharacteristic modesty. "And I also observe that you are not willing to share any more about your...occupation with me, is that right?"   
  
  
"Not at this time."   
  
  
Holmes changed tack abruptly. "Where is your master? When Watson and I saw you, you were alone."   
  
  
"We were separated." Kenobi’s voice was quiet and even, but it was difficult to miss the volumes of worry contained in those few words.   
  
  
"Well, then, we shall have to do what we can to reunite you," Holmes said jovially. I shot him a sharp look. He had not mentioned Moriarty or Kenobi's rapid healing once, though I was certain that his rampant curiosity was clamouring for satisfaction. My friend rose. "It's very late, Watson," he said. "We should let our young friend rest." He nodded to Kenobi, and, taking my arm, dragged me from the room.   
  
  
Once we were in his study, he shut the door, dimmed the lamp, and threw himself into the basket chair, eyes closed. I remained by the door. "What was that all about, Holmes? I've never seen you avoid asking questions so determinedly in all my life!"   
  
  
Holmes gestured me impatiently to a chair. "I can't carry on a conversation with you when you hover like that, Watson," he complained. I obediently took my customary armchair and waited. He was silent so long I thought that he had fallen asleep on me, when suddenly he stirred and opened his eyes. "I was reticent for a number of reasons. The first, much as it pains me to admit it, is that I can tell virtually nothing about this young man. He's not from England, nor is he from America, the Continent, Asia, or anywhere else. I've never seen clothing like his before, or hairstyle--though those do remind me a little of some Eastern orders. He's far too controlled for someone so young, and if he truly is an apprentice as he claims, I shudder to think what reading his master would be like. He's playing a deep game, Watson, and it is somehow tied into Moriarty and his new allies."   
  
  
"Do you think he's one of Moriarty's men?"   
  
Holmes considered that. "No, strangely I don't. I believe he's telling us the truth—an edited version, but the truth all the same." He sighed heavily, and it turned into a yawn. "It's far too late to worry about this any more, Watson," he said. "And it's been forty-eight hours since I slept last. I'll learn more from him in the morning."   
  
  
I rose stiffly, feeling my own exhaustion settling into my bones. "Good night, then, Holmes." His only reply was a grunt. I paused at the door. "What do you suppose Mrs. Hudson will make of him?"   
  
  
"She'll never tell," Holmes said drowsily. "But you can be certain she'll feed him."

 

***

Morning found me but little refreshed, and wishing I had not drunk that extra brandy-and-splash the night before. I lay in my bed for a moment, thinking about nothing in particular, when the events of the previous day came back in a rush. I dressed hastily and hurried downstairs to see if our guest was up and about.   
  
  
I found Obi-Wan Kenobi in the dining room, dressed in his own clothing, which had apparently been rescued from my associate's clutches. Holmes's assessment of Mrs. Hudson's reaction was proving correct. She was busily plying him with enormous amounts of food, and although he was eyeing the kippers with deep suspicion, he was doing admirable justice to the rest of it. "Good morning, Doctor," he greeted me politely. He still held himself a little stiffly, and I judged that, despite his unusual recovery, his shoulder still pained him.   
  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Kenobi," I replied.   
  
  
He pushed the salver of kippers towards me with the air of someone offering an uncertain gift. "Please, Doctor, call me Obi-Wan. Or," he corrected, "you could follow Mrs. Hudson's example and call me Ben."   
  
  
I glanced sharply at the landlady. She was usually the very soul of propriety, and despite keeping house for Holmes and I for several years, still referred to us as 'Mr. Holmes' and 'Doctor', respectively. This was somewhat out of character for her.   
  
  
Holmes breezed into the room then, looking disgustingly well rested. He could function better on four hours of sleep than most men could on ten. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said airily. "Breakfast looks especially delectable this morning."   
  
She raised an eyebrow at this. Holmes almost never bothered to notice what was put in front of him, if it was edible, and I half-suspected he wouldn't notice if it weren't.   
  
  
Ignoring her patent disbelief, he continued. "I trust you are feeling better this morning, Obi-Wan?"   
  
  
"Call me Ben, Mr. Holmes. And thank you, I am."   
  
  
My friend stabbed a forkful of eggs, his face studiously innocent. "Doctor Watson was certain you would be weeks in recovery."   
  
  
I concealed my start of surprise in a gulp of tea. I hadn't said anything concerning that to Holmes. How had he-? But no, I could guess. Holmes could read thoughts simply from an expression or gesture, and he knew me better than most.   
  
  
"I've always been a fast healer," Ben replied laconically.   
  
  
" _Really_."   
  
  
It was impossible to read the young man's reaction to that loaded response. Like Holmes, he let few unwanted emotions show on his features. "Perhaps you should tell me more about your work, Mr. Holmes," he said. "For instance, who is this man you are hunting?"   
  
  
_Touché_ , I thought approvingly as I caught the brief flicker of surprise cross Holmes's face. I did wonder how Ben had known, though. Had Mrs. Hudson told him? That was unlike her, if it was true. She never discussed her employer's business with strangers, and as likable as this young man seemed, he was still a stranger.   
  
  
Holmes recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pattern on the table surface with long fingers. "You are well informed suddenly."   
  
  
"I have my sources," Ben replied with a small smile.  
  
My friend shot a faintly accusing glance at Mrs. Hudson. "Then you are a far more persuasive man than most."   
  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked offended. "'Ere, now, Mister Holmes!"   
  
  
"Never mind. As to your question, ah, Ben, I am willing to answer it. But," he raised a long finger, "only if you answer one of mine."   
  
  
"That, Mr. Holmes, will depend on the question."   
  
  
Holmes snorted softly. "Very well. His name is James Moriarty. Outwardly, he is a professor of mathematics at Oxford, but I know him to be something far more sinister. He is a criminal mastermind. In the last ten years he has subverted and consolidated forty percent of the criminal organizations in London, Oxford, Brighton, and Paris. He has been responsible for any number of large-scale thefts, scams, and I thwarted him in an assassination attempt only last year."   
  
  
I looked at Holmes in surprise. "I didn't know that. Whom did he try to murder?"   
  
  
"I'm not at liberty to say, Watson," he replied with an apologetic smile. "But you might take a closer look at the initials on the study wall."   
  
  
Holmes had once, whether out of boredom, a fit of patriotism, or some other bizarre reason, fired a gun at the study wall, spacing the shots so they spelled out 'V.R.' He'd then hung a Union Jack over it. I felt the blood drain from my face as I connected those initials with his revelation. 'V.R.' stood for Victoria Regina..."Dear God," I muttered.   
  
  
"Exactly." He turned back to Ben. "I believe that I am accurate when I say that Moriarty is not a man I feel comfortable leaving loose and at large. Unfortunately, he _is_ a genius, and has so far managed to elude me." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "At first he simply ignored me, other than to send me a few rude notes telling me I was far too young and inexperienced to be a nuisance. I hope my last encounter with him has changed that view."   
  
  
Ben nodded. "I do not know you very well, Mr. Holmes, but I believe that it would be foolish of Moriarty to underestimate you. However..." His brilliant eyes grew strangely distant. "Be careful. This hunt could be your death."   
  
I watched the young man in alarm. Now, I am not the sort of man who subscribes to superstitions and the supernatural (unlike my literary agent Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle) but there was a strange, compelling conviction in Ben's voice that sent a chill through me.   
  
  
Holmes reacted not at all, other than a small twitch of an eyebrow to indicate his skepticism. "Now, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you will answer a question of mine."   
  
  
Ben folded his arms, waiting.   
  
  
My friend finished off the last of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. "What is that unusual thing hanging from your belt? I was interrupted in my study of it yesterday."  
  
  
I blinked. I'd nearly forgotten about it. It also was not what I had been expecting Holmes to ask.   
  
  
Ben glanced down at the cylinder hanging from his belt, looking as though the question had caught him off-guard as well. He thought about it for a long moment, then said: "That's a difficult one for me to answer just now, sir. Suffice it to say that it is a weapon, and I sincerely hope I will not have to use it anytime soon."   
  
  
Holmes made a small noise of satisfaction. "I thought as much. And I intend to get a better look at it before this is all over." He rose suddenly. "Now to business. I have reason to believe that this thief you are chasing has allied himself with Moriarty."   
  
  
The young man's mask of control slipped, revealing shock and something akin to horror. "What makes you say that?"   
  
  
"An informant I spoke to last night mentioned that the Professor has been making new friends—friends with weapons no one has ever seen before. And though I got a very poor look at it, I would not hesitate say that the weapon you were shot with yesterday evening was one I've never seen before." He glanced at me. "And Watson will tell you that I am familiar with nearly every weapon known to man."  
  
  
"I wonder if I might speak with this informant of yours," Ben ventured.   
  
"Impossible. He died rather suddenly before he could finish sharing his information with me."  
  
  
"How?"   
  
  
"I don't know. My guess is poison, since his throat seemed to have closed up, but I know of no poison that leaves no mark or indication whatsoever."   
  
  
Ben had grown very still, his face unreadable. "I must find my master," he said, very softly.   
  
  
"Mmm. I believe I know someone who can help us. I need to speak to him anyway, give him my report."   
  
  
Since there was only one person currently to whom Holmes would make any sort of report, I could guess immediately the man my friend was referring to. "Mycroft?" I asked.   
  
  
"Yes. You'd better get your hat, Watson. You're involved in this whether or not my brother likes it."

 

***

The Diogenes Club, where Holmes's older brother spent his days, was located not too far from his apartments on Pall Mall, on a street comprised mainly of gentleman's clubs. The club itself was an odd one—it catered to gentlemen who wished solely to be left alone.  They went there to avoid socializing, and spent hours in heavy silence.  I suppose for some, it was pleasant. It was closing on noon when Holmes, Ben Kenobi, and myself stepped down from our hired carriage outside the Diogenes, and most of the crowd around us was comprised of gentlemen on their way to business or entertainment, with here and there small eddies of color that were women on their way to pay calls.   
  
  
Before we had left Baker Street, it had been determined that Ben would require less-conspicious clothing. That had proved something of a problem, as Holmes was taller and leaner and I was shorter and heavier. A thorough search of both my wardrobe and that of Holmes’s had resulted in a reasonably presentable outfit for the young man, so long as no one looked closely enough to see the less-than perfect fit. A workman's cap, unearthed from Holmes's disguise closet, looked at odds with the rest of Ben's attire, but served to cover his strange hairstyle. The braid, refusing to remain tucked under the hat, was stuffed down the back of his shirtcollar.   
  
The heavy fog of the previous night had burned off, and the sun shone in kind autumn warmth over the city. Ben—I found it easier to think of him as Ben, though I had not yet learned just how Mrs. Hudson came about calling him that—looked about him with open interest. "How many people live in this city?" I heard him ask Holmes.   
  
  
"A little over four million," Holmes replied.   
  
  
"So few?"   
  
  
I turned to stare at the young man incredulously. "What do you mean? London is one of the largest cities in the world!"   
  
  
Holmes, too, was watching him closely. Perhaps sensing he had let more slip than he'd intended, Ben changed the subject. "This man we're going to see—you said he was your brother, Mr. Holmes?"   
  
  
For a moment, I didn't think Holmes would let him get away without an explanation. His grey eyes were keen on the younger man's face. Then, he seemed to relax. "Yes. My older brother, and my superior in intellect and observation skills."   
  
  
"Is he? And is he also a consulting detective?"   
  
  
Holmes laughed at that. "Heaven help us if he were! No, he is an accountant."   
  
  
Now Ben's eyes were a sharp as Holmes's had been moments earlier. "But he is more than that."   
  
  
"I will let you form your own conclusions about Mycroft Holmes," my friend replied. His voice was suddenly cool, giving nothing away.   
  
  
The interior of the Diogenes Club was dim and plushly furnished. The porter, recognizing Holmes and me immediately, ushered our small group into the room where Mycroft spent most of his time. It was empty, but the man informed us that Mr. Holmes's brother would be along shortly.   
  
I seated myself on the sofa, pausing to pour myself a snifter of brandy. Holmes accepted one as well, though Ben, taking a sturdy chair next to the window, declined. Holmes took up a position by the fireplace, resting one long arm on the mantelpiece. The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock above the mantel. I sipped my brandy, allowing my gaze to wander about the comfortable, ornate room. As I did, it struck me again how very different these two brothers were. Where Holmes had little use for personal possessions—the clutter dominating his study and bedroom was not a result of avarice but rather an accumulation of items he found useful or interesting—Mycroft appeared to enjoy creature comforts. Everything in the room was in top condition and designed not only for an attractive appearance but also for supreme physical comfort. From the chairs to the décor to the brandy I held in my hand, it was all first class. I wondered what sort of salary Mycroft's 'accounting' brought in, or if this high-class lifestyle was allowed him by his superiors (if he had any) to keep his vast knowledge of international and government matters to himself. Then I dismissed the thought as unworthy. Mycroft may have been, in his way, even colder and more calculating than his younger brother could be, but he shared with Holmes the same deep love of humanity and good.   
  
  
"You are contemplating something very hard, Watson," Holmes commented suddenly. "I perceive it has to do with my brother. Wondering about the benefits of his occupation?"   
  
  
I shook my head. "Holmes, you never cease to amaze me. However did you guess that?"   
  
  
His expression turned a little pained. "Please, Watson. I never guess—I deduce." I noticed Ben watching us closely. "You twirled your brandy in your glass," Holmes continued, "which is of excellent quality and no doubt very expensive. Not something we often have at Baker Street. I saw you studying the room's decor—also very rich—and rubbing your hand along a worn spot on your trousers."   
  
  
"All right, all right." I laughed. "One of these days I shall learn to stop asking you how you accomplish that."   
  
  
"Oh, don't do that. How ever will I entertain myself then?"   
  
  
Soft laughter from Ben drew our attention. "That is most intriguing, Mr. Holmes. Your methods are fascinating."   
  
"Flattery will get you nowhere, my boy," Holmes said with a small grin. "I feed off information."   
  
  
"I take your hint, Mr. Holmes, but there is little that I am at liberty to tell you."   
  
  
The door opened, breaking off further conversation, and Mycroft Holmes entered. He was as tall as his brother, but where Holmes was as lean as a wolf, Mycroft was built more like a...well, a whale. One had to look closely to see their resemblance, despite the identical black hair and piercing grey eyes. "Sherlock!" he boomed. "I didn't expect to see you for at least another day!"   
  
  
"Really, Mycroft. You might give me _some_ credit for being good at my job." Holmes's tone was light, however, showing he took no offense at his brother's words. "Allow me to introduce you to a new acquaintance. Mycroft, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi. He prefers to be called Ben, however. Obi-Wan, this is my brother Mycroft Holmes."   
  
  
Ben had risen from his chair, his hat held loosely in one hand. I saw that the braid had slipped free from his collar and was dangling over his shoulder. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes," he said politely, extending a hand.   
  
  
Mycroft hadn't moved, his eyes narrowed on the young man. “Dear heaven,” he muttered.  “This is the last thing I need!”

 

 “What the devil do you mean?” Holmes demanded.

  
Mycroft ignored him, opening the door again and speaking quietly to the man outside.  “Get me MacEiver. Now.” Then he closed it again and turned to study Ben. “Forgive my rudeness,” he said, suddenly all warmth and jovial charm. He crossed the room to clasp the young man’s hand. “Please, be seated. I see you have been recently injured.”    
  
Ben, though he had been as startled as Holmes and I at Mycroft’s outburst, had recovered himself quickly and took his seat as the big man requested. I fancied, however, that a flicker of hope crossed his features. No doubt he hoped that Mycroft had already found his missing master.   
  
“What is this about, Mycroft?” Holmes asked again.   
  
His brother waved a pudgy hand. “Patience, patience, Sherlock. I hope all will be revealed.”   
  
Holmes, truly irritated now, growled in the back of his throat. “Mycroft—” he began.   
“How did your meeting with your informant go last night?” Mycroft interrupted smoothly, seating himself in an overstuffed chair.   
  
My friend fairly choked. “I didn’t tell you about that!” His brows snapped down into a black line over his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare set watchers on Baker Street. If you have, this will be the last time I _ever_ work for you again.”   
  
“Calm down, Sherlock.” His smile was faintly malicious. “Doctor Watson has been rubbing off on you.” Mycroft turned his grin, friendlier now, towards me to soften the words. “No offense, Watson.”   
  
I was used to it. “None taken.”   
  
“What do you mean—?” Holmes broke off, and the scowl was replaced by an exasperated smile. “Of course. The note is still in my pocket, and there is mud on my shoes from the riverdocks.”  
  
“And you didn’t bathe last night. Where did you go—the Roll?”  
  
“Naturally.”   
  
“Ah. I thought I recognized that particular reek.”  
  
“Thank you ever so much, brother,” Holmes said dryly. “As for the meeting…it didn’t go well.” He briefly outlined the events, starting with our rescue of Ben, and Mycroft’s broad face grew grim.   
  
“I don’t like this, Sherlock. And you think there may be a link between Moriarty and this thief?” At Holmes’s nod, he sighed heavily. “We will have to wait then, until MacEiver gets here.”   
  
Holmes turned to prop his shoulder blades against one of the mantel’s posts, twirling his half-empty brandy snifter in his long-fingered hands. “I thought I knew most of your men, Mycroft, but I don’t think I’ve met this fellow.”   
  
“You don’t know half my men, Sherlock. You only wish you did. And he isn’t my man, strictly speaking.”   
  
Holmes sneered amiably at him. I was mildly startled. It was rare to see the two men behave like normal brothers. “Who is he?” my friend repeated.   
  
“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d…rather allow him to explain.”   
  
There was a soft knock at the door. Mycroft, with surprising speed for a man his size, sprang to his feet and opened it, admitting a short, nervous looking fellow in his mid-thirties with a shock of dark red hair and slightly watery green eyes. He was dressed impeccably, in the height of fashion, from his beaver hat to his well-shined shoes and silk waistcoat. “M-Mycroft,” he said, his eyes darting to Holmes and I. Ben, still seated, was mostly obscured by Mycroft’s bulk.   
  
“MacEiver. Sorry to call you up in a rush like this.”   
  
“W-what seems t’be the problem?” He had a soft Scottish burr, noticeable even through his stutter. “I was j-just on m’way to the train station. B-business back home in Edinburgh.”   
  
“Rory MacEiver, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and his friend and associate Doctor Watson. They seem to have picked up a stray. I thought you might be interested.” He moved aside, gesturing to the young man seated by the window.   
  
MacEiver froze, his eyes widening a little, and said nothing.   
  
“Dammit, MacEiver,” Mycroft said peevishly. “Can’t you let me know when you’re bringing in more people? I’m getting too old to have surprises sprung on me like this!”   
  
The little Scotsman suddenly straightened, all semblance of nervousness falling away. “We weren’t getting anyone new in, Mycroft,” he replied evenly, and I noticed with a shock that not only had his stutter vanished, but so had his Scots accent. It now sounded more than a little like Ben’s, and as I looked closer at him, it seemed to me that he no longer even resembled a Scot. He turned his gaze back to Ben. The young man rose and bowed. MacEiver bowed back. “What’s your name, Padawan?”   
  
“Obi-Wan Kenobi, sir.”   
  
“And your master?”   
  
“Qui-Gon Jinn.”   
  
MacEiver smiled slightly. “I know that name. He taught a few of the saber classes at the Temple right before I took the Trials. Where is he?”   
  
“I…don’t know. We were separated, and—and I can’t feel him through the bond.” For the first time since we’d met him, Ben seemed to lose his calm demeanor, and was all at once a worried young man. “He isn’t dead, though. I’m certain of that. Almost.”   
  
“Let us hope not.” MacEiver hesitated then, glancing at Holmes and I. “I do not like involving more people in this, but…” he shrugged. “Nothing happens by accident.”   
  
Holmes folded his arms. “You could start by explaining that intriguing little conversation, Mr. MacEiver,” he drawled. “And then you could tell me how it is you managed to so completely appear in every way a Scotsman from the northern part of Edinburgh, educated at Oxford, and who has spent a number of years on the Continent.”   
  
MacEiver’s eyes glittered in amusement. “Practice, Mr. Holmes. Years of it.”   
  
“What is this talk of a temple?” I interjected. “And trials? If you ask me, it sounds like a lot of that spiritualist nonsense.”  
  
The red-haired man laughed. “Hardly that, Doctor Watson. Incidentally,” he added, “I find your stories in _The Strand_ to be most interesting.”   
  
Holmes cleared his throat pointedly, before I could do more than stammer my thanks and realize that MacEiver had deflected my question quite neatly. “It seems that I’ve asked this question a number of times already, and as I dislike repeating myself, I hope it will be answered this time without any further evasion. What is going on?”   
  
MacEiver sighed, folding his hands before him much as Ben did. “I fear, Mr. Holmes, that you will find my explanation difficult to believe. You pride yourself on being a rational man, and there is no basis of comparison in your experience for this.”   
  
Holmes smiled tightly. “I like to think I am not irrevocably narrow-minded, Mr. MacEiver,” he said. “To use an American phrase: Try me.”   
  
The short man nodded. “Very well then. Obi-Wan Kenobi, myself, his master, and a number of other people scattered through the British Empire and all over this planet are members of an order called the Jedi Knights. We are an ancient order, going back thousands of years to the beginning of the Galactic Republic. We are not from this planet. The borders of our Republic are an unimaginable distance from this solar system. Jedi Knights have been stationed on this planet for a number of years, keeping an eye on its development against the day when it will be contacted to join the Republic.”

 

***

For the first and perhaps the last time, I saw Sherlock Holmes incapable of saying anything at all. At last he managed a quiet “Oh,” and glanced at his brother.   
  
“I know it’s difficult to believe,” Mycroft replied, “but it’s true. All of it.”   
  
“But,” I sputtered a bit, to my embarrassment. “That’s preposterous! Absolute nonsense.  You really expect us to believe this?”   
  
Holmes, still leaning against the mantelpiece, said nothing, studying MacEiver and Obi-Wan each in turn. Then he straightened. “ ‘There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio…’” he quoted, very softly.   
  
I raised my eyebrows at this. As a general rule, Holmes ignores virtually everything that does not have bearing on his profession. Among these subjects is literature, Holmes’s knowledge of which is abysmal. He caught my expression, and smiled thinly. “Come now, Watson, even _I_ am familiar with Shakespeare.” He turned his gaze again to the two men. “Though I find what you have told me rather difficult to believe, I also admit that Mycroft is smarter than I, and would never be taken in by a lie—particularly not one that sounds so farfetched. Therefore, if he accepts it as truth, then so must I. You do understand, though, that I have reservations that will require hard evidence.”   
  
MacEiver nodded once. “I would expect nothing less from you, Mr. Holmes.”   
  
“And I have a great many questions.”   
  
“We will answer what we can.”   
  
“Good.” Holmes rubbed his thin hands together, suddenly looking for all the world like a cat that has just been given free access to the cream jug. “But to business first. We must locate Ben’s missing master.”   
  
MacEiver tugged at his cravat. “Yes. There is something rather disturbing about all this. However,” he added regretfully, “I am not in charge. Though I personally would offer any assistance you and Obi-Wan might require, I must first speak with my superior to determine the impact if we were to get involved in this hunt. Which brings us to the reasons for your presence, Padawan.”   
  
Ben sat up in his chair. “Three weeks ago, someone broke into the main research and development labs at CorTech and stole the plans for one of their prototype starfighters, as well as the plans for a new command ship. Master Qui-Gon and I chased him here, and were ambushed and separated not long after we touched ground.”   
  
“I have reason to believe that Moriarty has allied himself with this thief,” Holmes said suddenly. “The contact I saw last night spoke of new figures in the underworld, and weapons like no one had ever seen. Then he died, rather suddenly and mysteriously before he could go into further detail.”

 

I looked at Holmes in surprise. I had understood next to nothing of what Ben had just said. Where Holmes had come out with connection between Ben’s plight and Moriarty was beyond me. “Holmes...”

 

He shot me a quelling glare. I subsided, but determined to corner him later and, if necessary, beat him into providing me with an explanation.

   
MacEiver’s face was troubled. “I will do what I can to verify that, Mr. Holmes, Obi-Wan. Our group leader will certainly want to hear of this. I have permission to call on you at Baker Street?”   
  
“Naturally,” Holmes said wryly.   
  
“Good.” The slender man replaced his hat, and all at once became again the small, nervous Scotsman we had first seen. He half-bowed to us. “Th-thank ye for the information, s-sirs. A g-good day to ye.”   
  
After he had gone, Holmes finally sank into a chair. “That, Mycroft, was the most singularly unusual conversation I’ve ever had.”  There was a faintly stunned expression in his grey eyes, the only indication that he was not swallowing this outlandish occurrence as easily as he pretended.  
  
Mycroft snorted. “You should have been present when I first found out. And I will tell you, Sherlock, that he was rather mild today compared to when he told me.  I had no character witness as you did to accept his story.  He had to provide a...demonstration...to convince me, and it’s a wonder my hair didn’t turn white.”   
  
“I’m curious, brother mine, how _did_ you find out?”   
  
“That, Sherlock, is a _very_ long story. To be succinct: they felt they needed a native contact. How they found out about me, I don’t know, and frankly I don’t want to know. There is a great deal more to these Jedi than what MacEiver told you. Abilities that, if I had not seen them firsthand, I would not believe.”   
  
“If you’re trying to assuage my curiosity, Mycroft, you’re failing miserably,” Holmes said gently.   
  
“You’ll find out soon enough.” The huge man heaved himself up from his chair. “Keep me informed, Sherlock. And try not to get sidetracked. I _am_ paying you, after all.”   
  
“How could I forget?”   
  
Mycroft ignored that. “Where are you going from here?”   
  
“Home first. I’m expecting some reports from my Irregulars. After that…we’ll see.”   
  
“Very well. Be careful, Sherlock. I know you’re aware of how dangerous Moriarty is, but with an such an ally, with technology we’ve never even dreamt of…he’s doubly so.” He glanced at Ben and lowered his voice. “And be careful with these Jedi. They’re strange, and though I doubt you’ll meet a more rigidly moral group of people, they play a deadly game. Don’t cross them, and don’t interfere when they tell you to back down.”   
  
Holmes looked a little taken aback at Mycroft’s urgency, and though I could tell he would continue to do just as he pleased, he nodded anyway. Mycroft, never one to be fooled even by his brother, looked skeptical but said nothing as he nodded to Ben and me, and left the room.

 

***

An uneasy silence reigned in the carriage as it clattered its way back toward Baker Street. Though Ben’s face remained as impassive as always, I caught him shooting small glances towards Holmes and me. I fancied that he wasn’t entirely certain what to make of this afternoon’s previous stunning events. I thought I could understand; he’d gone to a great deal of trouble to keep who and what he was quiet, only to have it all thrown wide open in the space of a few moments.   
  
I tried to think of something to say to break the tension, but the only things that came to mind were questions. “How do you find life on another planet?” just didn’t seem to fit the bill. I was having difficulty wrapping my mind around the concept. Before, I’d only given the scientific journals that occasionally littered Holmes’s study the most cursory of glances; I wasn’t particularly interested in those disciplines that had little to do with medicine. I knew that astronomers had identified other planets beyond our own, and that it was possible that the millions of stars we saw at night had planets of their own, but it had never occurred to me to wonder if there might be life on them. The revelation that not only did it exist, but that it was far more advanced and far, far bigger than we could dream of suddenly made me feel very, very small and insignificant. I could only imagine how it might be affecting Holmes, whose self-image was so much greater than mine.   
  
Holmes suddenly stirred, leaning forward from his upright position to lean his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “Those plans you mentioned earlier,” he ventured.   
  
Ben, correctly guessing that Holmes was addressing him, turned his gaze from the window. “Yes?”   
  
“What were they? I believe you referred to one as a ‘starfighter,’ and another as a ‘control ship.’”   
  
The young man nodded. “It…will be difficult to explain, Mr. Holmes. I don’t have a thorough grasp on your culture’s current…technology.” He sighed, absently twirling his cap around on one finger. “I understand that the major means of transport here is by water-going vessels and animal transport?”   
  
“And trains,” I offered.   
  
“Ah, yes. I saw those—tracks?—when we were landing our shuttle. So your people have not yet discovered flight.”   
  
“Beyond that achieved in hot-air balloons, no.” Holmes smiled a little. “Though I understand that many—particularly the Americans—are experimenting.”   
  
Ben nodded. “Then much of what I could offer as an explanation will make little sense. In the Republic—where I am from—most of the planets that belong to it have not only learned aerial flight, but also space flight. Our ships can cross millions of miles in the space of a few days, using a means of travel known as hyperspace—”   
  
Holmes held up a hand, cutting short the young man’s growing enthusiasm. “I should stop you now before you lose us both,” he said gently. “This…is a little overwhelming for me—something that Watson, no doubt, will be eager to record in his annals as a singularly rare occurrence.” Before I could protest, he continued. “I will compensate for that by suspending my disbelief, such as it is. I accept that you know how to travel not only from country to country, but also from planet to planet. Am I also correct in assuming that, with this ability, space is also where you wage your wars?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“And so this… ‘starfighter’ is such a weapon?”   
  
“It is a small, one-man craft designed for dogfighting—sorry, for close combat.”   
  
“Dogfighting seems an accurate and descriptive term. A small craft…” he trailed off, searching, I supposed, through his vast mental resources for a basis of comparison. That was what I was doing, anyway. “Like our Navy’s smaller schooners, though they are not by any means ‘one-man’ crafts.”   
  
With a solid reference, I found that I could visualize—poorly, of course—something of what Ben was trying to explain. “And the ‘control ship,’ you called it?” I asked.   
  
“Much larger. The average control ship is manned by a crew of eight hundred or more, and is capable of a great deal more destruction. It also houses the wings of smaller starfighters and their pilots. Four or more make up a fleet.”  
  
“The big warships in the armada,” I said, remembering those I had seen in harbor up and down the coast.   
  
“Yes, sounding more like Her Majesty’s Navy all the time, eh, Watson?” Holmes sounded amused—and a little relieved, I thought. “So this thief has stolen those plans. To what end?”   
  
“I can only assume he intended to sell them to the highest bidder. They represent the cutting-edge of technology both in design and weapons.”   
  
Holmes frowned, leaning back and crossing an ankle over his knee. “But why come here? To a—may I be forgiven for using this term—backwater world, by your standards. I understood from what Mr. MacEiver told us—and from what you have told me of your technologies—that this, ah, planet will not be considered for open contact for a very long time. And, when he arrives here, why does he immediately seek out the most powerful of the criminal world to ally himself with?”   
  
It was now Ben’s turn to look worried. “I’m…not certain. I believe Qui-Gon—my master—was contemplating those same questions. If he were here—”   
  
“But he is not,” Holmes snapped. “And just now it is your opinion I am interested in, Obi-Wan.”   
The challenge that rang in his words seemed to galvanize the young man, and his spine straightened. “I will need to think on it, Holmes,” he replied. I suppressed a smile as I noticed he had omitted the ‘Mr.’ Altogether. “We thought he had come here to hide, but I am beginning to believe that he has more in mind than merely selling the plans.”   
  
“Very good.” Holmes smiled approvingly as the other man rose to the occasion. “There are other forms of payment beyond money.”   
  
“Power,” Ben said thoughtfully.   
  
“Control.” My friend’s eyes were bright. It was unnerving. I had the feeling that, if I were to leave these two alone much longer, they would start completing each other’s sentences. Though it was unlikely that Ben’s intellect matched Holmes’s—though that may have been bias on my part—he seemed to have an uncanny clarity and depth of perception that went well beyond anything I’d ever seen. Its presence was what put him on almost equal footing with Sherlock Holmes. That, and a far bigger base of different knowledge and experiences upon which he could draw.   
  
Fortunately, I was saved from further discomfiture by our arrival at Baker Street. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was slanting dusty bars of light through the treetops. The breeze was starting to pick up, bringing with it the promise of another cold autumn night. I found myself fervently hoping that Mrs. Hudson had prepared one of her splendid teas.   
  
The door opened as we approached it from the steps, but it was not Mrs. Hudson that greeted us. It was Mary, my fiancée, and she looked irritated. “Mary!” I summoned up a bright smile. “How wonderful of you to come. I—”   
  
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten we have a wedding to plan, John?” One eyebrow was raised as far as it would go.   
  
I was uncomfortably reminded of a governess I’d once had. “Uh…”   
  
Holmes, just behind me, poked me in the back with a finger. “You had an unexpected patient last night, remember?”   
  
“Oh—oh, yes. Mary, dear, this is Ben Kenobi. A carriage hit him last night. I believe I mentioned that in my message?” I was certain I had…almost certain.   
  
She leaned around me to see the young man at the bottom of the steps. He’d replaced his cap, and the brown lapel of his jacket safely camouflaged the braid. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said politely, then turned a steely gaze back to me. “And he seems to have recovered extremely well. Which makes me wonder, John, why you didn’t call on me this morning?”   
  
Behind me, I heard Ben murmur to Holmes: “Perhaps I ought to have a sudden relapse?” My friend’s only response was an almost inaudible chuckle. Holmes, damn him, was gleaning far too much enjoyment out of my domestic problems.   
  
“Mary,” I said, trying not to sound too plaintive, “do you suppose we could continue this indoors?” And away from Holmes, I added silently. He was going to be ribbing me about this for days, never mind that it was his fault to begin with.   
  
She pursed her lips, and then stepped aside. Holmes, grinning like one of the imps in his Irregulars, tipped his hat to her as he passed. Ben merely shot her a nervous look and retreated toward the kitchen, from which heavenly smells were emanating. Holmes, finally showing some discretion, followed him.   
  
Mary, meanwhile, had crossed her arms, and one foot was tapping. I suddenly reflected that she hadn’t acted a bit like this when I’d first met her, on that nasty little jaunt with Holmes I’d entitled “The Sign of Four.” No, I corrected myself. I _had_ known she was a strong-willed woman. Even Holmes had commented on it. “Mary, I’m sorry. It’s a very long story—”   
  
“I have time, John. We’re going to be spending the rest of our lives together. Believe me, I have time.”   
  
Not the answer I’d been hoping for. “I can’t tell you all of it—it’s one of Holmes’s cases, one of those that requires confidentiality. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”   
  
She still looked irritated, but I could sense she was softening. I tried my most soulful expression. “Please? I’ll tell you as much as I can once it’s all over.”   
  
Mary sighed, and I knew I’d won—this time. “All right.” She fixed me with a stern look. “But you _will_ sit down and discuss what is needed for the wedding breakfast, won’t you?” It wasn’t really a question.   
  
“Of course, dearheart.” Feeling that some sort of peace offering was in order, I added: “Won’t you join us for tea?” Belatedly, I realized that Holmes might not thank me for that. He no doubt wanted to pump Ben for more information, and could not very well do that while Mary was present. But it was too late to retract the offer now.   
  
“Certainly.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss me. “I never turn down one of Mrs. Hudson’s teas.”   
  
It would be interesting, I reflected, to watch how the teatime conversation would develop, with nearly every subject currently of interest to Holmes suddenly taboo.

 

***

Tea, all in all, was surprisingly pleasant. Holmes, wizard-like, somehow perceived my half-formed notion of revenging myself on him for his earlier behavior, and behaved precisely opposite from what I had expected. He was polite to Mary, as he was with most women who did not irritate him, and not once during the meal did he betray anything other than civility.  

 

The only hiccup came when Ben realized that, as courtesy demanded, he was required to remove his hat.  Mrs. Hudson reminded him of this with a meaningful look and raised eyebrow.  He darted back out to the foyer, and our landlady followed. They returned some five minutes later.  Ben’s hair had been carefully smoothed down, the odd tail at the back removed and the longer hairs somewhat blending in with the rest of the hair on the back of his head.  The braid seemed to have vanished, but a close look revealed that it had been rather cleverly pinned back along the base of his skull with, I guessed, some of Mrs. Hudson’s hairpins.  Ben now looked not so much an oddity as merely the victim of a bad barbering job.  Mary, who had not ever seen him without his hat, merely gave his hair a mildly sympathetic glance.

  
Realizing we would not be discussing his origins, Ben tucked into the spread Mrs. Hudson provided like a normal, hungry young man, and proceeded to utterly charm Mary. I was fascinated by the change—he had been so consistently taciturn and silent previously that it was a little startling to see him suddenly all smiles and compliments. After a while, I noticed that he was subtly drawing from my intended information on London, the British Empire, and our world in general, all without letting on that he knew virtually nothing about it. Only once or twice did he let slip ignorance on something he should have been familiar with, but he recovered so quickly and smoothly I doubted that Mary even noticed. I likely would not have noticed if I hadn't been watching for them. Holmes said very little, but I could tell he approved of Ben's skill. I found myself desiring to meet the fellow who had trained the young man so well.

 

The meal ended without incident, and as Mrs. Hudson began clearing away the tea things Holmes cleared his throat.  “We have quite a lot to do, Watson,” he said.  “Miss Morstan,” he addressed my fiancée, “I apologize that I must monopolize so much of your intended’s time, but this case—”

 

“I quite understand Mr. Holmes,” she said evenly, though I could tell she wasn’t completely happy with the situation.  “John—?”

 

“I’ll see you home, Mary,” I said quickly, feeling something of a heel.   After all, our wedding was only a short way off, and here I was practically abandoning her… “Perhaps we could discuss, ah, the linens on the way?”  I extended this pathetic peace offering as a child would extend a captured lizard: not at all sure of its reception.

 

Mary, bless her heart, received it well.  She returned my smile. “That would be lovely, John.” We rose to go to the door when a sharp gasp from Ben drew our attention.

 

He had suddenly gone deathly pale. Mrs. Hudson, standing just behind the young man, placed her hands on her shoulders, worry etched on her kindly face. The physical contact seemed to brace him, and he straightened.   
"What is it?" I asked, concerned.   
  
"My master...I felt him, just for a moment." He dragged his hands back through his hair, leaving it standing up in agitated tufts.

  
"John," she began.   
  
"I'm sorry, Mary, but you have to go," I said. "This is a terribly delicate case, and…ah…”

  
"I understand," she said. Wonderful woman that she was, she knew when to let a subject drop. Having been intimately involved in one of Holmes's more dangerous adventures, she'd no desire to become involved in another. “You should stay. I think you’re needed more here,” she added.  Kissing me lightly on the cheek, she murmured a goodbye to Ben, though he wasn't listening, and to Holmes, who waved a hand impatiently at her, and slipped out before I could do more than give a feeble protest. “Come visit soon,” were her parting words, over her shoulder, and she was gone.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson—" Holmes said.   
  
She looked up at him, and, understanding, patted Ben a few more times on the shoulder and disappeared with the tea tray into the back of the house.

  
Holmes turned back to Ben. "Explain," he ordered.   
  
The young man took a deep breath, and all traces of his previous shock vanished abruptly. "I'm not certain how much of this you will believe, Mr. Holmes," he said, "so I will not go into great detail. Suffice it to say that there is a bond between a Master and a Padawan—an apprentice—that is not unlike that between a parent and child. There are differences, however. For one thing, it is a great deal more palpable. It allows a Master and his—or her—Padawan to know each other's physical condition, their emotional state and, if the bond is deep and strong enough, where they are. After we were separated, I know that my master lost consciousness, but after that...nothing. I don't know why, but I was almost certain he wasn't dead. Now I know he isn't—I felt him, for just an instant, wondering where I am. I also got a very brief impression of his location before it cut off again."   
  
If Holmes's eyebrows had risen any higher, they'd have been lost in his hairline. "That is..." he shook his head. "Well, if I did not already know you are not from this world, I would brand you as mad. However, I agreed to suspend my disbelief in regards to this, so...where is he? And please don't tell me it was in a small dark room, because that is no help at all."   
  
"It was," Ben confessed, "but I would say that it is in a slum area. The construction of the walls was poor, and there were a number of water stains on the ceiling. Dust, cobwebs, and I think I saw a small furry animal with a bare tail." He snorted. "Somehow, I'm not surprised to discover that there are rats here just as there are on almost every planet in the galaxy. I don't suppose you have cockroaches as well?"   
  
"Naturally," Holmes said. "Unfortunately, there are a number of slums in London—Whitechapel and Tottingham Road are only two of the most notorious. I think that it is time to go out and see if I can't chase a few more informants out of their holes, where I'm sure they've all been hiding since they heard of Rat's untimely demise."   
  
"I believe I can be of assistance there," Ben said. "The weak-minded or weak-willed are easily persuaded by a Jedi's, ah, abilities."   
  
Holmes's lips thinned. "I think there is still a great deal you are not telling me, Kenobi."   
  
"Trust me, Mr. Holmes, if things develop as I fear, you'll have plenty of opportunities to see what a Jedi can do firsthand." 

 

 

***

Nightfall brought with it a cold, unpleasant drizzle that seemed to creep its way to the very bone. Autumn had arrived in London in full force. Holmes insisted that we wait until dark before venturing out to hunt informants. I was less than pleased at this—the slums of London are bad enough in daylight! It didn’t seem to bother Ben, however, and Holmes was as unruffled as ever.   
  
Mrs. Hudson saw us off, a worried frown creasing her kindly features. She seemed to have attached herself to Ben, young as he was, as the perfect object for mothering. She was forever fussing over him or herding him off to the kitchen to ply him with food. As we left through the back door, she admonished us to be careful. “Tisn’t safe, out there, Mr. Holmes. That Professor is a dangerous man—he’s sure t’ have it in for you.”  
  
“We’ll be careful, Mrs. Hudson,” he soothed her. “Watson has his revolver—”   
  
She sniffed disdainfully. Our landlady had little liking for guns, I’d discovered. Most women, I’m sure, felt the same, but somehow I think it went even further with our landlady.  From her various comments over the years, I’d formed the opinion that she felt they were supremely clumsy and inelegant.  Had Mrs. Hudson lived in the sixteenth century, I suppose she would have been a rapier and main gauche sort of woman.  
  
“—and I’ve my own defenses. Ben…” Holmes glanced at the young man.  
  
“Is well armed,” he replied, though the only thing I had seen him tuck beneath his coat was the strange cylinder he’d liberated from Holmes’s study. He still refused to tell Holmes exactly what it was. “Though I hope it does not come to violence.”  
  
“Well.” Mrs. Hudson folded her arms across her ample bosom. “You just watch yourselves. I’ve got a bad feelin’ about it.”  
  
Holmes shot me an amused glance. “We really must be going, Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
“I’ll have some tea warming in the oven for whenever you get back.” With a final huff, she turned and went back into the warm kitchen.  
  
It was a long, cold walk to the borders of the nearest slum. Holmes, despite his reassurances to Mrs. Hudson, seemed uneasy, and deemed taking a cab too great a risk. I wondered at this attitude, as he had received no further messages concerning Moriarty’s movements. Then I remembered what he had told me of Rat’s death, and realized that it may have disturbed Holmes more than he had been willing to let on before. I huddled into my coat, with chilly drizzle working its way past my upturned collar, and kept one rapidly numbing hand on the revolver resting in my pocket. The shadows around me seemed to crawl; the lamplighters had not lit many lamps on this wet night, and the spaces between the fitfully burning gaslamps were long. The footing was treacherous on the slick cobbles, and only very rarely did we see another living creature hurrying through the rain to somewhere warmer and dryer.   
“You couldn’t have picked a more lovely night to do this, Holmes,” I groused. “We’re all going to catch pneumonia.”  
  
“Nonsense,” he replied. “That’s what you’re for, Watson.”  
  
“Part of being a good doctor, Holmes, involves preventing the illness in the first place.”  
  
“You’re welcome to go back.”  
  
I chose not to respond to that, instead turning my head to look at Ben. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, his hands buried in the pockets of the shabby overcoat Holmes had provided. As we passed a sullenly burning lamp, I could see that his features were strained. “Are you all right?” I asked him.   
  
He glanced up at me, his eyes hooded. “I’m trying to sense my master,” he said. “But something’s blocking me. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s drugged, or if it’s…something else.”  
  
Unsure what to say to that, I lapsed into silence. It was another quarter-hour before we reached our first destination, a seedy little tavern titled The King’s Legs—the innkeeper’s idea of a joke, I suppose, on the hundreds of pubs scattered all over England known as ‘The King’s Arms.’ The interior was poorly lit and smoky, both from the damp wood thrown in the fireplace and the numerous pipes, cigars, and cigarettes being smoked about the room. The ceiling overhead was low-beamed and draped with cobwebs. The floors and tables had not made the acquaintance of hot water in some time.   
  
The common room was surprisingly full for such a miserable night. Holmes said it was not only the lure of alcoholic escape, but that, for such a rat-hole, it had surprisingly good beer. I was somewhat leery about testing this pronouncement, but as soon as we entered, Holmes headed for the bar, leaving us no choice but to follow. His walk and posture changed subtly, losing its grace, becoming rougher. It was amazing, really, how he could change his whole demeanor with a few subtle changes, even when wearing such a minimal disguise as he was now. Holmes always maintained that the key to a disguise lay not in the amount of makeup or false hair or clothes that one put on, but how one changed attitude, or gestures used when speaking, or facial expressions. I suppose he’s right, but I can never seem to grasp the technique. That would be why he is the consulting detective, and I’m not.   
  
Ben, for his part, didn’t change anything noticeable about his walk, but instead seemed to suddenly become unnoticeable. I was startled to turn around and find it hard to distinguish him from those nearest him. Another of those mysterious talents he seemed to possess. I simply did my best to remain unobtrusive, but I had the worst feeling that, though I was the shortest of the three, I was the one who stood out. Keeping my head down, I took a stool next to Holmes and resolved to keep my mouth shut. It would do no good to draw further attention to our group by letting my distinctly non-lower class accent to show through. I couldn’t disguise it, no matter how hard I tried.  
Holmes signaled for the barkeep to bring us ale. When the man turned back with the three glasses, my friend leaned forward. “Seen Shaever around lately?” His clipped, well-educated accent had been replaced by a Yorkshire drawl.  Not unpleasant, really, but very unlike Holmes.  
  
The bartender, who dwarfed Holmes, eyed him for a long moment. “Why?”   
  
“He owes me some money,” Holmes lied easily. “I’m getting a little tired of waitin’.”  
  
“Hmph. Well, he ain’t been here since yesterday. Seemed scared,” he added.  
  
“Did he tell you why?”   
  
“Nah. I just sell th’ man drinks. I don’t ask questions—‘s bad for business.”  
  
“Any idea where we might find him?” A pound note suddenly appeared in my friend’s hand. I sipped at my ale, and was surprised to discover that it really _was_ good, though the glass could have stood a thorough cleaning.  
  
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you, neighbor,” the man replied coldly. “He was scared, and maybe you’re the reason.”  
  
Ben leaned forward. “We mean him no harm,” he said softly, bringing his hand slowly across the front of his chest.

  
The man blinked a few times. “Maybe you don’t mean him no harm,” he said slowly.  
  
“It’s all right to tell us where he lives,” the young man continued, again moving his hand.   
  
“I-I suppose it’d be all right. He holes up ‘bout three blocks away, next to Ma’am Lorden’s whorehouse.”  
  
I stared. Holmes, who had been watching Ben curiously, looked back to the barkeep. “Thank you, he said, laying another pound note on the bar to cover the drinks and rising. “Let’s go,” he said to us.  He stalked toward the door, and I caught something muttered under his breath. It sounded like “damned hocus-pocus.”  
  
“What did you do?” I hissed to Ben as we left the tavern.   
  
“It’s as I said earlier, Doctor. The weak of mind are easily influenced.”  
  
“Hypnosis?”  
  
Ben shrugged. “Not really,” was his maddeningly vague reply. Then lengthened his stride a little to draw even with Holmes, who had gotten ahead of us. I hurried forward, trying to catch up before they were swallowed in the crowd.  
  
Our destination was a tenement that was rundown even by the standards of this neighborhood. I could see a number of dark shapes slumped in the nearest doorways, surrounded by a cloud of gin-fumes. Holmes roused one roughly, and there followed a murmured conversation I couldn’t hear, along with the exchange of a few shillings. Then my associate straightened. “He says that Shaever’s on the third floor, fourth flat.”   
  
The interior of the building stank of old grease and urine, and Holmes had to dig out a stub of candle from his pocket so we could navigate the stairs. Shadows flickered eerily around us. “Shaever is a fringe member of Moriarty’s organization,” Holmes explained softly as we ascended. “If any of my contacts know anything about your master, he would.”   
  
“Would Moriarty know that?” Ben asked.  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“We could be walking into a trap,” I said.  
  
“There isn’t anyone up there right now but Shaever,” Ben replied.  
  
“How can you be so certain?” Holmes demanded.  
  
“As a Jedi, I can sense life forms, Mr. Holmes, as well as emotions. Shaever is terrified, but he’s alone in his room.”   
  
My associate snorted, but did not say anything more. We reached the third floor, and after a cautious look around the hallway, Holmes led us to the fourth door, and reached out to slowly try the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. “I doubt he’ll answer if we knock,” Holmes whispered, and pulled out the felt roll that held his lockpicks. The lock was poor, and it only took a few seconds for him to conquer it, opening the door just wide enough for us to enter.  
  
Shaever wasn’t difficult to find—he was huddled over a grimy gas lamp in the tiny main room, nursing a bottle of cheap rum and well on his way to becoming roaring drunk. He was about my height, thin to the point of emaciation, with tangled, shoulder length grey hair.  
  
“Don’t bother getting up,” Holmes drawled with vicious amusement.  
  
With a yelp, the man shot up from his stool, overturning it, and tripped on it as it fell. He tumbled into an ungainly sprawl on the dirty rug. “G-get away from me!” he cried.   
  
Holmes blew out the candle, dumped the little pool of wax that had gathered around the wick onto the floor, and tucked it back into his pocket. “Come, now, Shaever. I always pay you well.”  
“Money don’t do me no good if I’m dead!” The informant had pulled himself up into a crouch, hugging the wall beneath the room’s single window like a frightened animal.   
  
“But if I learn what Moriarty is planning, I can stop him. And then you wouldn’t have to worry.” My friend strolled over to the stool, righted it, and sat down casually.  
  
Shaever shook his head vehemently. “It ain’t him I’m worried about!”  
  
“No—you’re worried about his new ally, aren’t you?”  
  
“H-how did you—”  
  
“I learned a few things from Rat before he was killed.”  
  
“Not enough,” the skinny man said with sudden violence. “He didn’t tell you what _that_ one can do!”   
  
“And what would that be?” Holmes’s voice was soothing and gentle—the tone he used to coax information from those unwilling to give it.   
  
It almost worked. Shaever opened his mouth to reply, then froze. “No, no. I won’t talk. If I don’t talk, they don’t have any reason t’ kill me.”  
  
“These guns they have—what are they called, Ben?”   
  
“Blasters,” the young man said. “Pure energy–lightning, if you will–rather than projectile. Very powerful compared to what you have here.”  
  
“Blasters. Thank you.” His curiosity satisfied, Holmes leaned forward. “See, we know more than we ought to already.  You can just confirm what we already know—not really betraying anything. You do realize, Shaever, that they’ll kill you anyway, whether or not you talk to us.” His voice hardened. “Someone was following us—once he sees that we’ve spoken to you, they’ll assume that you’ve betrayed them—and it doesn’t matter what you say. However, if you tell me what you know, I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

 

It has always impressed me, in a perverse sort of way, how Holmes can tell a bald-faced lie without so much as turning a hair.  
  
Shaever had turned a sickly shade of grey. “Nothing you can do,” he whispered. “You can’t protect me from—from _that_ one.”  
  
Ben moved toward him, crouching down on his heels a few feet away. “Are they holding a prisoner? A tall, bearded man, dressed strangely.”  
  
The informant only stared at him in terror. Ben’s eyes narrowed, and the intensity in them flared. Shaever squirmed under that gaze, and finally blurted: “I don’t know! I might’ve heard some talking about a prisoner, kept not far from here. But that’s all, I swear!”  
  
The young man nodded. “He’s telling the truth. I caught an image of where they’re holding him.” He lifted his head, tensing. “We should leave.” He rose, turning toward the door.  
  
A sudden change came over Shaever’s face, and he sprang up from his crouch, a knife appearing in one hand, straight toward Ben’s unprotected back. I cried out a warning, but the Jedi was moving before the cry even reached my lips, and with inhuman speed turned back, catching the man’s wrist in one hand and his throat in the other, pushing him back toward the window. The glass shattered under the impact, nearly sending both tumbling out.   
  
“You—I know what you are!” Shaever snarled, still straining against Ben’s grip. “If—if I kill you… _he’ll_ let me live! He’s got a price on _your_ head!”   
  
A flash of green light suddenly blinded us, followed by a high-pitched whine that I recognized. Ben released Shaever, diving back onto the floor. The skinny informant, suddenly finding himself free, grinned triumphantly and raised his knife. I saw him silhouetted in the light from the next shot, the expression on his face changing to one of shock. Then he staggered forward and collapsed in a heap on the floor, smoke rising from the wound in the center of his back. Ben gestured for Holmes and I to get down, and crawled over to Shaever to feel for a pulse. Glancing at me, he shook his head. “He’s dead.” He glanced toward the shattered window. “And I’m afraid we may have to fight our way out. But at least I know where they’re keeping Qui-Gon. Looks like you weren’t lying about us being followed after all.”  His face darkened. “Strange, though...I sensed no one.”

 

“Abilities beyond the pale of normality you may possess, my young friend,” Holmes said, “but I doubt very much that even _you_ are infallible.”

 

Ben flushed slightly. “That is true,” he admitted, a little reluctantly I thought.  “All the same, I know what we need to know. Shaever not only heard about the prisoner–he’s seen the place and been inside the room. The image in his mind was very clear.”  
  
“I’m not going to ask for details on that,” Holmes said. “I don’t think I want to hear your

explanation.”  
  
“Do you know how many are out there?” I asked. I did not pretend to understand the powers that Ben Kenobi laid claim to, but if they kept us alive…

  
The young man’s eyes grew distant. “Three—no, four. I think I can get us out of here without them noticing that we’ve left.”

  
“And how do you intend to accomplish that?” As he spoke, Holmes withdrew from his overcoat’s pocket the scarf I’d seen him use before. It looked innocuous enough, but one end was heavily weighted with metal balls designed to do painful injury. It was one of the many esoteric items my friend preferred to guns.  He would use one when necessity demanded it, but I think he held the same opinion as Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“It’s one of those things you’d rather not hear about, Mr. Holmes,” Ben said with a tight smile. “But I’m hoping to fool them into not seeing us, similar to the way I persuaded the barkeep back at the tavern to tell us where Shaever was. It’s not going to be easy, with four, and they’re alert, but there’s a good chance it will work long enough for us to get past them and most of the way to the building where my master is. It’s quite near.”   
  
“You intend to mount a rescue with only the three of us?” Holmes raised his eyebrows. “That seems a little suicidal to attempt on the spur of the moment. If I had more time to plan, I might be able to come up with something workable, but like this—” He shook his head.   
  
“We don’t have time to spare. After this,” he jerked his head at Shaever’s body, “they won’t take any chances. They’ll likely move my master—or kill him.” His face was very grave, but I thought I saw fear buried deep in his eyes.  He grinned then, pulling an odd little device from his coat pocket. “Don’t worry, though, I intend to call in some backup to get us out once we’ve got him.”  
  
“What is that?” I asked.   
  
“It’s a communication device that can be used to talk to people over distances. MacEiver has one.”   
  
“All right, all right,” Holmes said shortly, edging up to peer around the edge of the splintered window-frame. “We haven’t time to chat. I think they’re moving on the building.”  
  
“Let’s go then.” Ben rose, making certain to keep away from the window. “I’ll need absolute concentration, so please don’t speak to me after this, and try not to make any sudden movements, or think about anything too hard.  If you can, try to concentrate on water dripping or something equally boring.   The building we’re looking for is a quarter-mile away to the west. We’ll keep to alleys as much as possible. Ready?”   
  
We nodded, and I took the precaution of pulling my revolver from my coat. I wasn’t convinced that Ben could do what he said he could, and if they did see us, I was determined to be prepared. With a final gesture for silence, Ben’s face closed, becoming fiercely intent. His blue-green eyes seemed to burn. We followed him, as silently as we could. I concentrated as hard as I could on the most boring think I could think of: the wallpaper covering the walls of my old school headmaster’s study.  I could hear the voices of our attackers in the stairwell. Ben waved us to the wall, and flattened himself against it. We followed suit, waiting breathlessly.   
  
It was impossible. Even being there, seeing it happen, I found it unbelievable. Four men, roughly dressed and armed with silvery gun-shaped weapons, emerged from the stairwell, talking in low voices. Though the three of us were in plain sight, they did not so much as glance at us. Once they had passed, Ben moved on silent feet to the stairs, with Holmes and I following. I held my breath until we were out on the street and safely into the shadows of an alley. It was still raining.  
  
“What do you know?” Ben breathed, relief coloring his voice. “It worked.”  
  
Holmes rounded on him, eyes flashing. “You mean you haven’t ever done this before?!”   
  
“Well, yes, but never on three people, just on myself.”   
  
“And if it hadn’t worked? What was the alternative?”  
  
The young man looked grim. “Then I would have had to kill them.” His voice was cold as he pulled the metal cylinder from beneath his coat. “And that, Holmes, was something I’d just as soon avoid. Killing is not something Jedi take lightly. Besides, better to deceive and confuse them, than leave them silent if they are supposed to report in.”  
  
“I see.” Holmes looked only slightly mollified. “Next time, however, let me know if you are planning to attempt something you’ve never done before. I like to be prepared in the event of failure.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
It was a tense fifteen-minute sprint from the tenement to the building where they were keeping Ben’s master, most of it spent dodging in and out of alleys. The quarter was suddenly teeming with pairs and groups of tough-looking men, some armed with clubs and knives, others armed with guns or the strange weapons called ‘blasters.’ It was evident that the men we had fooled at Shaever’s rooms had somehow put out a call that we were at large in the area. I wondered how, then remembered the device Ben had shown us. If they had devices such as that, communication would be far more efficient than anything Holmes or I had ever experienced.  
  
At one point, when we were forced to squeeze into a shadowed doorway to avoid yet another group of hunters, Ben sighed. “I wish I knew where they were getting the blasters,” he muttered. “The report given to us said nothing about a shipment of blasters being stolen.”  
  
“Could they be manufacturing them?” Holmes asked quietly.  
  
“If this were a more advanced planet, I would say yes. But Mailen is a pirate, not an engineer, and no one here has the know-how to—” He broke off. “They’re past. Let’s go.”   
  
The building proved to be quite similar to the one we had just left—rickety, falling apart, and odiferous. Unlike Shaever’s tenement, however, it was obviously and heavily guarded. We huddled in the deep shadows of an alley across the street to assess the situation.  
  
Ben said something softly in a language I did not recognize. I had the feeling he was swearing.  “They seem to be expecting us.” His eyes darted back and forth over the building, looking for any gap in their defenses.   
  
“Could you use the same trick on the guards you used earlier?” I asked.   
  
He shook his head. “Not on that many alert people, even if I were to go in alone. No, it will have to be something else.”  
  
“A diversion?” Holmes suggested.  
  
“Yes. If I just had—What are you _doing_?!”  
  
My friend suddenly rose, moving from the concealing shadows and out into the middle of the street, his hands in his pockets, whistling a Mozart concerto. I started forward to pull him back, but an iron grip on my arm prevented me. I stared furiously at Ben, but he only shook his head. Holmes appeared so nonchalant that the guards at first only watched him with wary curiosity.   
  
Still holding onto my arm, Ben cursed under his breath in that same strange language, and pulled me out of our concealment into a dead run. His teeth were clenched, and since none of the distracted guards so much as glanced at us, I guessed that the young Jedi had decided to try his earlier trick after all, taking advantage of Holmes’s audacity. It worked—barely. Just before we reached the safety of the narrow gap between the building and its neighbor I saw one of the guards cast a confused gaze in our general direction, as though he wasn’t quite certain whether or not he’d seen something. Then the darkness closed around us again and Ben released my arm to lean heavily against the wall. He looked more winded than a short run across the street warranted.  
  
Holmes, for his part, had stopped directly in front of the door guards, with only a dozen or so yards between them. The guards, suddenly suspicious, shifted, and one suddenly drew in a sharp breath. Holmes, seeing his reaction, grinned tightly at him, twitched his eyebrows, and bolted. After a confused flurry, the guards took off after him, firing.   
  
“Damned cheeky fool!” I muttered, partly in admiration, but mostly in sheer exasperation.   
  
“Yes,” Ben agreed sourly. “But he left us a way in. Come.”   
  
The interior was poorly lit, and we could hear people moving around above us. For the moment, though, the entrance was deserted. “How will you find your master?” I whispered to my companion.  
His head was tilted, as one listening. “Now that we’re so close, I can get a very faint sense of him beyond whatever drug they’re using. Upstairs, on the second floor.”  
  
“First floor,” I corrected absently. He glanced at me. “This is the ground floor,” I explained. “The next one up is the first floor.”   
  
“Whatever. We’d better get out of sight, Doctor. Someone’s coming back.” He opened a door—I tensed, fearing someone would be on the other side, but the room was empty—and pulled me through.  
  
“There’s only the one flight of stairs,” I hissed. “How do you intend to get up without being seen?”  
  
“Creativity, Doctor Watson. Just keep your revolver pointed at that door in case anyone comes through.” He tugged a worm-eaten chair out a few feet from the wall and climbed up onto it, eyeing the ceiling determinedly. I obediently aimed my weapon, but kept an eye open to see just what it was Ben had in mind. I was certain it would be something as outlandish and bizarre as anything Holmes might come up with. Remembering the young man’s unusual origins, probably even more so.  
  
I was not disappointed. He pressed the switch on the tube that Holmes had been so curious about, and a length of blue fire poured from the end of it. My mouth fell open. “What is _that_?”  
  
“It’s called a lightsaber—a weapon that Jedi use. It’s–oh, I don’t know how to explain it to you.” He slowly pushed the—I hesitate to call it a blade, but could think of no other description—straight up, into the ceiling above. There was a flare of light, followed by the sharp smell of burning wood and dirt, and Ben began to cut a circle.   
  
“Ah…aren’t you worried about starting a fire?” I asked, nervously eyeing the smoking wood.   
  
“No. I’m channeling the heat into the whole ceiling. Smoke is the most it’s going to do—though you might want to be careful of the edges going up. They’ll be a little warm.”  
  
What he meant by ‘channeling’ it, I’ve no idea, and wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I have long held disdain for the spiritualist groups springing up all over London who claimed to ‘channel’ spirits—but somehow, I don’t think that was the sort of channeling Ben had in mind. He had strange powers that even the most deluded of the spiritualists had never conceived of. Who knew what someone from a distant planet was capable of?  
  
Completing the circle, Ben shut down his weapon and caught the freed piece of ceiling before it had fallen more than a few inches. As he climbed down from the chair, I saw that he was actually holding two circles—not only the ceiling in this room, but from the floor above. I was grateful that he hadn’t accidentally cut into a support beam. In this pathetic excuse for a building, who knows what might have happened.  “You first, Doctor,” Ben said, making a stirrup of his hands so I could climb up. I was a little dubious about it—though I was shorter, I knew I outweighed him—but he seemed to have strength as uncanny as the rest of him, and had no trouble pushing me up through the hole he’d made. A moment later, he shot straight up through it, to land lightly on his feet. I just shook my head, realizing that I was rapidly moving beyond surprise. On silent feet, he moved to the room’s door, the handle of his lightsaber held down at his side but not ignited.   
  
Ben eased open the door far enough to allow me to poke my head and scan the hallway beyond. Pulling back, I glanced at him. “There’s a guard posted at the fourth door,” I whispered.   
  
He nodded. “That’s almost certain to be the room then.” He opened the door again, sticking his head out. “Sir?” he called, and I felt my heart lurch in shock. “Could you come down here a moment?”   
  
I gaped at him, and heard pounding feet in the hallway. Ben pushed me back and moved to one side as the door flew open to reveal the guard, holding a blaster. Ben brought his hand down on the man’s wrist, twisting it sharply and forcing him to drop the weapon. Then, still keeping his hold, he pulled the guard toward him, bringing his knee up into the unfortunate fellow’s midsection. As the man fell to his knees, gasping for air that refused to come, the young man drove his lightsaber hilt sharply down onto the back of the guard’s skull, felling him without another sound.   
  
"Dammit, boy, _warn_ me the next time you do something like that!" I growled, pressing a hand to my chest. "Between you and Holmes, I'm going to have heart failure before this night is through!"   
  
Grinning an apology, Ben signaled for me to follow him out into the hall and to the now-unguarded room. Before I went, I searched the unconscious man’s pockets until I found a key.  
  
I found Ben stalled at the door—it was locked, as I had guessed. I waved him aside and inserted the key into the lock with a silent prayer that it was the right one. My prayer was heard, and the lock clicked. I pushed open the door slowly, my revolver at the ready. To my relief, there was no second guard inside. The room’s only occupant was a still form on the bed.  
  
He was a tall man—even lying down I could see that he was probably even taller than Holmes—and powerfully built. His features were leonine, and his nose had been broken at least twice. A short, greying brown beard limned his jaw, and grey-streaked hair tangled about his shoulders. He was dressed much the same as Ben had been when we’d found him, though his robes were a darker brown. He was also unconscious, and the cloying smell in the air told me the reason.   
  
“Opium,” I said grimly.

“Opium is a native drug?”

 

For a moment, I thought he meant native to England, and started to answer in the negative.  Then I remembered where he was from, and what he probably meant by ‘native,’ and I nodded.  “It comes from the seeds of a poppy—a flower grown in some parts.  It’s a hallucinogen, and also induces sleep.  In a diluted form, it’s used as a painkiller called laudanum—which can be just as addicting as the actual drug.  It’s responsible for many shattered lives. If they’ve pumped enough into his system, it could give him problems.”

 

“It isn’t likely,” Ben said.  “Jedi, because of their training, are naturally resistant to drugs and poisons.  Some of our Healers can actually purge impurities on the cellular level.”  As he spoke, he placed his fingertips lightly on the big man’s temples.  “I am not a healer, and my skills are nowhere close to that.  However, I think I can remove enough of the drug from his body to allow him to regain consciousness.”

 

“You think?”  I was painfully aware of how short our time was.

 

“Well…it’s not something I’ve done very often.  My master and I have spent our share of time under medical care, but getting drugged isn’t something that happens to either of us very frequently.  Though it’s certainly preferable to what we usually get,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “At least drugs don’t usually hurt.”

 

“And if it doesn’t work?”

 

“He’ll have to be carried out.”  Ben closed his eyes then, bending his head over his master’s.  I eyed the form on the bed, and prayed that Ben’s…whatever it was…worked.  The prospect of carrying a man that size out of a guarded building and through an enemy held slum was _not_ appealing.

 

The seconds ticked by, and I listened nervously for sounds indicating our presence had been discovered.  I wondered what had become of Holmes—I fervently hoped that he was all right.  He was a master at eluding pursuit, but there was no telling what sort of tricks these fellows might now have.

 

There came a soft cough from the bed, and I turned to see Ben’s master opening his eyes.  They were blue-grey, even in the near-darkness, and the same banked fire burned behind them as did in his apprentice’s.  “Obi-Wan?”  His voice was very deep, and, though soft, surprisingly steady.

 

“Yes, Master Qui-Gon.  Can you stand?”

 

“I…believe so.”  Qui-Gon swung his legs over the bed’s edge to plant his feet on the floor.  Then, assisted by Ben, he slowly stood.  He swayed dangerously, and the younger man reached out to steady him. 

 

“They’ve been keeping you drugged, Master,” he said.

 

Qui-Gon rubbed his temples gingerly.  “I noticed,” he said with dry humour.  “And the hangover is worse than ten Corellian screwdrivers.” 

 

Ben grinned, and I got the feeling that the reference was a private joke.  “There are no Council members here to catch us singing this time,” he replied.

 

The big man chuckled softly at that.  Then he raised his eyes to me.  I could almost feel a palpable touch from that steady gaze—it was as though my entire character had been thoroughly read in that instant.  I was relieved when he turned an inquiring glance to Ben.

 

“This is Doctor Watson, Master.  He and his associate got me out of trouble and helped me locate you.”

 

“I am grateful, Doctor,” Qui-Gon said gravely.  He lifted his head, like a lion testing the air for danger.  “We should leave—we are in grave danger.”  His hand strayed to his belt.  “I’m afraid they took my lightsaber when I was captured.  Obi-Wan—”

 

“I have mine, and Doctor Watson is also armed.”

 

“That will have to do then.  I don’t know that I’ll be much help—there’s still enough of that drug in my system to leave me lightheaded.”

 

In a cautious knot we eased out of the room, certain that we would be ambushed at any moment.  The floor was quiet, though, and we quickly made our way back to the room where Ben had cut the hole.  He went down first, followed by his master.  I cast a final uneasy glance around before dropping through myself.

 

“It’s much too quiet,” I said, memories of the ambushes I’d endured in Afghanistan rising to haunt me.  There, when the wasteland had fallen silent, it was almost certain that the natives would rise up like ghosts in their sand-colored garb to wreak havoc on Her Majesty’s troops. 

 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ben muttered. 

 

Qui-Gon closed his eyes.  “There are about twenty men waiting outside in the foyer.  I’m having some difficulty sensing them—it’s almost like someone is trying to block me.”

  
Ben was silent for a moment.  “I can’t sense anything at all, Master.  Is it possible for twenty men in the same place to have natural shields?  That seems a little coincidental.”

 

“It’s very unlikely.  But I don’t recall anyone saying anything about our thief having Force-abilities.”  The big man shook his head. “But now is not the time to worry—we must concentrate on getting past that ambush.”  He glanced around the room.  “No window, or I’d suggest that.”

I hesitated but decided I’d nothing to lose by speaking up.  “Couldn’t you just…cut through the wall, like Ben did the ceiling? I believe it should open onto the outside.”

 

The two Jedi stared at me silently for a moment, their expressions unreadable.  Then Qui-Gon chuckled softly.  “Thank you, Doctor.  You remind us that sometimes the simplest solution is the best.”

 

He suddenly reminded me a great deal of Holmes—and I abruptly recalled the danger my friend had placed himself in.  “Holmes!” I said.  “We must discover what has happened to him!”

 

“I can’t pinpoint where he is,” Ben said reassuringly, “but he’s alive, and unhurt.”  Not waiting to see my reaction to this, he turned his lightsaber on and began cutting through the wall.  Qui-Gon watched him for a moment, then nodded curtly and turned his gaze to the door. 

 

“Hurry it up, Obi-Wan.  They’re getting suspicious out there.”

 

“Yes, Master Qui-Gon.”  With a small flourish, the young man completed the cut and pushed at the smoking, man-sized hole he’d cut into the planks.  There was a crash as both the inner and outer walls—and a few of the wall supports—fell into the alley beyond.  “After you, Master,” he said with a bow.  “Age before beauty.”

 

“You’re too kind,” Qui-Gon said sardonically.  “And you’ll regret that comment, Obi-Wan, the next time we spar.”  He pulled his robes close around him as he stepped through, carefully avoiding the smoldering edges of the impromptu doorway.

 

Once we were in the smelly darkness of the alley, I helped Ben stuff the pieces of wall back into the hole to form a sort of barricade.  “It won’t hold them very long,” Ben said as we stepped back to admire it, “especially if they have blasters.”  Shouts from outside the alley turned our heads.  “Or they might just go out the front door instead,” he added. 

 

He moved to the front as the first shadowy figures rounded the building’s corner and began firing their blasters.  To my surprise, the shots rebounded off the glowing blade and were sent careening back into the mob, bringing cries of pain and fury.  I fired a few shots of my own, felling two of our attackers.

 

“There’s more coming out,” Ben shouted over his shoulder.  “They’re trying to flank us—we have to get out of this alley before we’re trapped!”

 

Qui-Gon nodded curtly, then paused, narrowing his eyes at our attackers.  “A moment, Obi-Wan,” he said, and lifted a hand.  One of the men gave a startled shout, stumbling forward, and I saw a small dark shape hurtle out of the darkness into the tall Jedi Master’s hand.  It hissed, and green fire erupted from its end.  “Very good,” he said, clearly pleased. “Someone thought they would have a trophy. Thank you kindly,” he called to the man, irony edging his deep voice. “Come, Doctor.”

We began to run for the opposite end of the alley, Qui-Gon joining his apprentice in blocking shots.  The drug seemed to still be affecting him, as his movements—though faster than I would have believed possible—were clearly slower than Ben’s.  As we reached the alley’s mouth, five more shapes surged out in front of us.  Qui-Gon flipped his free hand almost negligently in their direction, and they were knocked back as though struck by a giant, invisible hand.  My jaw dropped, but Ben’s hand at my back kept me from stopping to stare. 

 

It seemed as though the entire district around us had suddenly sprung to life.  Shouts echoed around us, and the whine of blasters filled the air, intermingled with the occasional real gunshot.  As we passed yet another narrow, poorly lit street, three men pelted out of it.  The two Jedi turned to block the shots, and I felt a searing pain burn along the outside of my shoulder.  One of the assailants had a revolver, and the small bullet had broken through my companions’ defense.  I fired back, catching his knee, and he dropped.

 

A sound behind me caught my attention, and I spun, raising my gun.  Another man—taller than the others, holding a blaster, which I recognized now even in near darkness. I pulled the trigger, but the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.  Cursing, I stepped back, fumbling in my pocket for more ammunition.  Then, as the man came closer, I stopped.

 

“Remind me never again to sneak up on you in a fight, Watson,” Holmes drawled, raising his new weapon and firing at one of the other men.  He missed, took more careful aim, and fired again. This time the attacker fell, leaving the Jedi only one to deal with.  “It was fortunate for me you were out of bullets,” he added, lowering the blaster.  I saw Ben spin in close to the remaining attacker, even as his master continued to deflect shots and keep the man distracted.   Then the young man kicked him in the face, and the street was, for the moment, quiet.

 

“I’m glad to see you alive and well,” I told my friend.

 

“It’s been a deadly game of hide and seek, Watson.  They’ve been chasing me all over the district.  I think I saw Colonel Moran, once.”  His smile was positively wicked.  “He looked most upset, especially after I led six of his men into a blind alley and dropped a rotted back stair onto them before losing them over the rooftops.  I should not wish to be in his place when he reports to Moriarty.”

 

“You would be Doctor Watson’s associate,” said Qui-Gon, coming up to us.  I had not been wrong in my judgment of his height—he was a good two inches taller than Holmes. 

 

My friend eyed him for a moment, and then extended a hand.  “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” the big man replied, taking Holmes’s hand.  “I thank you and the doctor for your assistance to my Padawan.”

More shouts and the sound of running feet drew our attention.  “They’re all over the area,” Holmes said.  “It has been increasingly difficult for me to avoid them—and it will be all but impossible with four of us.”

 

“Are you suggesting we split up?” I asked.

 

“No,” Qui-Gon interrupted.  “I have a feeling that would be unwise.”

 

Ben pulled out the small device he’d called a ‘comlink.’  “Time to call in reinforcements,” he said.  His master shot him a curious glance.  “It’s a long story, Master.  The short of it is that there are Jedi posted here on the planet, and they’ve offered their assistance.”

 

“If they have swoopbikes or something of that sort, then I strongly suggest they use them,” Qui-Gon said.  “We aren’t going to get out of here on foot without a full scale war–which will draw far more attention than a few ‘bikes.”

 

“I’ll do my best, Master.”  He turned away and spoke softly into it.

 

“There’s a blind alley not too far from here,” Holmes said.  “It would be easier to hold them off there.”

 

“Narrow?” I asked, running scenarios in my head.

 

“Perhaps six feet.” 

 

“Good.  With some crates and debris to make a barricade, we should be able to hold them off quite well.”  I glanced around, noting our position, and gauging the distance of the enemy.  “How far is it?”

 

“Right over there.” He gestured to a dark hole a hundred or so yards away.  “Lead on, Major Watson.” 

 

I raised an eyebrow at his use of my military rank—something he almost never did, and started for the alley.  As I had expected, it had more than its share of junk, like most alleys in this slum.  It was short work to make a barricade with the assistance of Holmes and Qui-Gon Jinn, while Ben argued softly with his little machine.  We had just finished our wall when the first shots echoed across the street, one narrowly missing the preoccupied young Jedi.  With a muffled oath he dove behind our pile.  “Is that proof enough for you?” he snapped at the comlink.  “I know it’s conspicuous, but we need help if we’re going to get out alive!”  There was a short pause, then: “Thank you.” He replaced the device in his pocket and turned to us.  “Can we hold them off for fifteen minutes?  MacEiver has to clear it with their Jedi Master before they send a squad out to get us.”

 

***

As I remembered all too well from my service in Afghanistan, time slowed to a crawl as the battle raged on.  Perhaps ‘battle’ is too strong a word, but with only four of us—one still unsteady on his feet—and only a little over a score of the enemy, it felt like one. 

 

The two Jedi were incredible—an army unto themselves, despite the older man’s lingering disorientation from the drug. If we’d had even a handful of men such as them fighting for Her Majesty’s army in India, perhaps we would have had fewer casualties, and the war would have ended much quicker. (Remembering the unfailing politeness I’d encountered so far, perhaps the war wouldn’t have begun at all.)  They seemed to sense every move our attackers would make, before they made it, and not only blocked ninety percent of the shots being fired at us, but anticipated and blocked a rush on our left flank, where our hasty barricade was weakest. 

 

Moriarty’s men were losing their morale by the bucketful.  The pauses between volleys were growing longer, and we could hear muttering in the shadows.  They weren’t pleased with our resilience—and the fact that fully half of their men were down or wounded from the Jedi throwing their shots back at them, my revolver, and Holmes’s growing accuracy with the blaster.  They clearly had expected this to be an easy victory. 

 

During one such pause, as I searched my pockets in vain for more ammunition, Qui-Gon ran a critical eye over Holmes’s weapon.  “The power pack is almost empty,” he said.  “If it weren’t so dark, I’d try and get you another.” 

 

“I’m out of bullets,” I said.  “Unless I can get my hands on one of those blasters, I’m afraid I’ll be of no use.”

 

“It won’t take them long to discover we’ve lost some teeth,” Ben said grimly.  “And when they do, they’ll try to rush us.”

 

As if on cue, they began firing again.  “It’s been nearly half an hour,” I shouted over the noise, squinting at my pocket watch in the bursts of light.  I peered cautiously over the top of our stack of crates—they were starting to look very sorry—and noted that our attackers were, indeed, creeping closer.  “If your reinforcements don’t hurry, all they’re going to find are corpses.”

 

A muted roar came to my ears then, barely audible through the sounds of the firefight.  It grew louder, and it suddenly seemed that half a dozen huge black beasts suddenly dropped from the sky, scattering Moriarty’s men. 

 

“About damn time,” I heard Ben mutter.  “They’re here, Master,” he said, more loudly.

 

“Let’s go then.  Holmes, Doctor, you first.  Obi-Wan and I will cover you.”  He kicked a path through the barricade, gesturing with his weapon.  I was reluctant to leave them behind, but Holmes, ever practical, planted a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me forward.  The two Jedi, rather than remaining behind, flanked us on either side, both a whirling blur of motion as they deflected fire.  Then Ben dropped behind as one of the enemy engaged him one-on-one.  I stopped, wondering if I ought to go help him, but a hand suddenly grabbed the back of my coat and dragged me toward one of the rumbling beasts with surprising strength.

 

It wasn’t really a beast, of course, though I had absolutely no idea what it was.  It gleamed dull black in the fitful light, all long, low lines and sleek angles.  A machine, of some sort, and I noticed as I was hauled toward it that it was hovering two feet from the ground, floating in thin air.  I looked wildly around to see who had a hold of me, but saw only a tall, slender, faceless figure in black.  For a moment, I thought it wasn’t human, then realized that the strangely bulbous head was, in fact, a helmet of some sort.  “Come on, Doc,” said a muffled voice from behind its visor.  “Time to leave.”  He assisted me onto the machine and climbed on in front of me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes and the two Jedi pairing up with three more of our rescuers.  The others had blasters out and were holding off the enemy, and as I watched, one pulled out a lightsaber with a yellowish blade.  “Put this on,” my companion said, pushing another helmet into my hands.  I fumbled it on reluctantly.  The rider turned to help me with the unfamiliar strap that fastened beneath my chin, and pushed something just inside the helmet’s bottom, near the left side of my jaw.  “Can you hear me?”  It was my comrade’s voice, seemingly inside my ear, not so muffled now, but still distorted by the noisy chaos raging around us.  All I could tell was that he had a very light voice, and the underlying accent seemed to be American.  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.  “Hang on.”  When I didn’t budge, he pulled my arms around his waist, and turned away.  “Shadow Lead, this is Shadow Nine,” he said.  “Can we pull out?”

 

MacEiver’s voice—I was surprised to discover I recognized it even through the distortion—responded.  “Nine, Three, Seven, and Eight, go.  We’ll keep them from hitting you.  Meet us back at the Haven—and see if you can’t raise Ilein up on ship.  He’s late reporting in.”  


“Yes, sir.”  Through the smoky visor on my helmet, I saw my companion look over his shoulder at me.  “Hang on,” he warned again.  “I don’t want to try and catch you if you fall off.”  And without waiting for response, he kicked something and the machine on which we perched roared, not down the street, but up into the air at a dangerous angle.  I stifled a yelp and tightened my grip on the rider’s waist so much that I could feel ribs compressing.  The roar of the machine filled my ears, along with a near unintelligible babble from whatever it was in the helmet that allowed us to communicate.  As we ascended, I caught snatches of conversation, and I began to listen more closely through the interfering noise.  It took my mind off the knowledge that we were now hundreds of feet above the London streets, with nothing but a dangerously fast machine and empty air between myself and the ground.

 

“…swoopbikes. We don’t want to attract more attention than we already have.”

 

“Derry, that would be next to impossible—after a blasterfight like that?  We’re lucky it was in the slums.”

 

“Don’t be a doomsayer, Three,” said my rider.  “With the class distinctions here, who will believe any witnesses? They’ll think they were all drunk or high on drugs.”

 

“Shadows,” another voice—MacEiver’s—broke in.  “This is Leader.  Stay on course—I’m taking a short side trip.  Something odd has caught my eye.”

 

Though the thing on which we rode—I believe I’d heard one of our rescuers referring to them as ‘swoopbikes’—was still traveling far, far faster than anything I’d ever seen and was making stomach turning dips and turns over the dark city, I found myself beginning to relax.  There was something very thrilling about hurtling through the air at such speeds. I’d often imagined, as a boy, what it might feel like to fly like a bird.  Now I knew.  I wondered if the people of my world would ever achieve such wonders.

 

Talk dropped off among the riders, and I saw that we were beginning to descend.  Looking down, I saw the long, sloping roof of a building, and recognized it as a boarding house—a rather large one.  There was a sharp drop off on the west side, and I saw a wide terrace, big enough to land all of the machines on.  ‘Nine’ brought our machine to a halt and turned it off.  To my surprise, it remained hovering until we’d both gotten off—my dismount was not nearly so graceful as my companion’s—and then it settled gently to the ground.  “How do you hide all these?” I asked my rider.

 

“Cloaking device,” he replied cryptically.  “We won’t turn it on until Taryn—you know him as MacEiver, I believe—gets back.  The building is owned and run by us.”  I almost asked what a ‘cloaking device’ was, but decided that I really wasn’t up to listening to yet another half-comprehensible  explanation of an alien technological wonder.

 

One of the other riders—shorter and stockier than mine—approached us and slapped me on the back.  “Welcome to Haven, Doctor,” he said.  “Tea should be waiting inside.”  He and Nine began walking toward an open door on the far side of the terrace.  Fumbling my helmet off, I spotted Holmes near the doorway. 

 

“That was exhilarating,” I commented as I hurried up to him.

 

“Perhaps you found it so, Watson,” he replied flatly.  “But it is not an experience I’d care to repeat.”  I noticed, as we stepped into the lit hallway beyond the door, that he looked a little green.  Apparently, Holmes did not take to flying. I wisely refrained from comment.  Holmes does not appreciate having his weaknesses pointed out to him by anyone other than himself.

 

Our rescue party had paused inside the hallway to remove their helmets and heavy jackets.  My rider pulled his off, and I stared.  Grinning at me from across the hallway was not a man, but a tall woman—she had to be almost six feet without shoes on—with long red hair pulled back into a braid, strong features, and heavy lidded brown eyes.  She seemed highly amused at my surprise.  “My name here is Shannan Corym,” she said, shaking my hand in a very firm, business-like grip.  She had the same strange accent as the others, only it seemed mixed with American undertones instead of British or Gaelic.

“John Watson,” I mumbled. 

 

“I like your stories, Doc,” She smiled again, removing any offense I might have taken at her familiarity.  “And I admire your work, Mr. Holmes.  You both have my welcome.”  I noticed that, in the thick-soled boots she wore, she stood eye to eye with my associate.

 

“Ah, leave off, Shannan,” said one of the others—by his stocky build I guessed him to be the one who had welcomed me outside.  “You can get their autographs later, but couldn’t we eat first?”

 

“Not until you get Ilein on the comm., Derry-boy.  And not until Taryn gets back. You won’t starve before then.  And the rest of you have better things to do than stand around gawping.  Go on—you can ask all the questions you like later.”  She shooed them away, and despite some good-natured grumbling, they went.  The red haired woman smiled and bowed respectfully to Qui-Gon.  “Forgive our informality, Master Jinn,” she said.  “We’ve been isolated from the Order for almost five years.  My name is Shannan Corym.”

 

He bowed back.  “No apology is necessary, Knight Corym.  We owe you our lives.”

 

The roar of an engine outside drew all our attention.  “That must be Taryn—sorry, you two–MacEiver,” the woman said, frowning.  “He’s upset.”  She moved swiftly to the door, with Qui-Gon and Ben following, and Holmes close behind them.  I wasn’t certain I wanted to know what the new crisis might be, but my curiosity would not be denied, and I found myself trailing them out onto the terrace.

 

MacEiver, clad like the others had been in jacket and helmet, had shut down his machine by the time I got outside.  He dismounted gracefully, pulling his helmet off. His auburn hair lay plastered by sweat to his skull, and his expression was glowering.  “Get everyone you can together, Shan,” he said to the red-haired woman.  “This has just gotten a lot more serious.”

 

***

MacEiver stood with his back to the fireplace, arms folded across his chest.  He bore very little resemblance now to the man we had met in Mycroft’s reception rooms earlier in the day (had it really only been this afternoon? It seemed like years.).  His face was hard, forbidding, and in the black clothing he was almost menacing despite his relatively small stature.  No resemblance whatever to the dapper little Scotsman. He was silent now, waiting as the group assembled settled itself into order.

 

They were an odd group of some ten people besides MacEiver and my own little party.  Shannan sat beside the other woman in the group, a voluptuous blond with hard green eyes. Her name, I learned, was Maeve Stonehaven and she had been the one driving the machine Holmes had ridden. I wondered what Holmes made of her.  There were four others who had been in the rescue party, including Derry—the least grim of the lot with his round, cheerful face and stocky figure.  The others, who had not lingered to speak with MacEiver at his arrival, had changed into more normal clothing, ranging from a grubby fellow who looked like a sailor to a man wearing a fortune in fine clothing and whom I thought I recognized as a nobleman known for his work with the poor and who was often mentioned and pictured in the papers. 

           

I was seated next to Derry, and found him more than willing to answer a few questions.  I learned that only four of the assembled Jedi—MacEiver, Derry, the nobleman (whom I knew as Lord W—) and the blond were actually ‘posted’ in the British Empire and spent a lot of time in London.  The sailor traveled all over the world, and Shannan was from New York City.  A man from France with long curly hair, an earring, and a distinctly gypsy air about him, an impressive dark skinned man posted in the Middle East, a dark haired man with dreamy eyes who lived in Romania and traveled through the Balkan countries and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, an oriental looking man from the Far East, and a man in explorer’s gear who spent his time in the jungles of South America and who, like Lord W—, was fairly well known in the papers for his exploits.  The most surprising in appearance, I think, was the tall, bronze-skinned Indian from the American west.  He was seated backwards on a chair near the fireplace, the flickering light playing over the muscles of his bare chest and glinting off the beads of his jewelry and in his long black hair.  The shining cylinder of his lightsaber added an even more jarring note to his wild appearance.

 

            When silence settled in the room MacEiver turned to us.  “I’m afraid the police were called to the scene. They didn’t see me, but I’m certain they noticed something odd.”

 

            “Is that what you went to check out?” Lord W–– asked.  As I had previously noticed with these people, the ‘nobleman’s’ highly educated Oxford accent had been replaced by an ambiguous one.

           

            MacEiver nodded. “Not so odd as I feared, but serious enough.” He turned to Qui-Gon. “I need to know—how exactly did you and your Padawan come here without our knowledge?  Obi-Wan told me some of it earlier today, but I’d like to hear the whole story.”

           

            The tall Jedi nodded, and began to speak.  I did not understand many of the references, but I shall endeavor to report the situation as I heard it:  He and his apprentice had just returned to ‘Coruscant’—I assumed that was a place of some importance—after a mission to some place called ‘Malastare’, and been summoned by the Council (whoever they were) after only a day.  They were told that they were to investigate reports of industrial sabotage and possible theft at the Sluis Van shipyards, inside the CorTech Research and Development offices.  It was believed that the thief was a professional one, a small time pirate named Agasar Mailen. 

           

            The two Jedi arrived in time to learn that he had just stolen CorTech’s newest plans for a starfighter and command ship, and, to boot, had escaped in their only working prototype.  (I was unfamiliar with the term ‘prototype’, but guessed from context that it meant one they had actually built from their plans to experiment with.)  They had immediately taken pursuit, intending to follow him to his lair and call in reinforcements to remove his entire operation.  Instead, he’d led them deep into something they referred to as the ‘Unknown Regions’.  I got the impression that this journey had lasted for some time—perhaps even months. 

 

            “I believe he was unaware that we were following him until we actually reached this system,” Qui-Gon said at this point.  He’d eventually noticed their presence and the chase had been rather close as they drew nearer to Earth.  They’d pursued him all the way into the planet’s atmosphere, and then lost him for a short time. (At this point, I suddenly recalled reading something in the papers about an unusual meteor shower or something that had occurred a week earlier in Scotland. Had that been the two ships?) Locating his ship abandoned in some mountains—here I realized that it had indeed been in Scotland—they’d landed and begun looking for him on foot.  I felt there was a whole story unspoken in his terse description of their journey.  The reaction of the highland residents of that part of Scotland to the odd pair would have been interesting to see, to say the least.  The two men had reached London on their quarry’s trail some days later—they traveled very swiftly, it seemed.  The idea of going from the mountains of Scotland to London in only a few days was almost unheard of, but I was learning to expect the unexpected from these people.  They’d been ambushed almost the minute they reached the city, and separated.  The rest we knew, for the most part. 

 

MacEiver looked troubled.  “It’s strange that we received no report of your arrival.  We take shifts in our own ship, patrolling the system to discourage travelers from interfering with this planet.  It’s been declared off limits by the Anthropological Syndicates, and we’re here only to observe and protect. We haven’t heard from Ilein, the knight currently up there, in several days.  It’s not unusual for him to be silent, but in light of these events it’s worrying.”

 

“We saw no trace of another ship when we entered the system,” Ben said. 

 

“That concerns me,” Qui-Gon said, rising.  The tall Jedi Master paced a few steps toward the fire, his long robes billowing behind him.  “We assumed Mailen had stolen the plans to implement in his own operation, with the intent of improving his success in raiding the shipping lanes.  It was a reasonable theory—he has a lot of competition with the Hutts and the larger pirate groups. He’s been pushed nearly to the Rim with his last few failures.  He’s very ambitious, is Mailen, but he doesn’t have much in the way of imagination, or brilliance at all.  The CorTech people were surprised to learn it was he.  The heist was very skillfully and subtly pulled off—unusual considering his customary method of charging in, guns blazing, and making off with whatever he can grab.”

 

“You think he had help,” Maeve Stonehaven suggested.

 

“Yes.  Again, we assumed it was local—that he’d made an alliance with one of the larger and more powerful crime syndicates, perhaps in hopes of gaining protection or a patron.  But this turn of the path is disturbing.”

“Why come out to a planet that is undeveloped and officially undiscovered, with nothing to offer him?” the Indian asked. “Unless he had bigger plans than more successful raids in mind.”

 

“Power is often a far more seductive mistress than money,” Qui-Gon said.  “With a single ship or two and only a handful of allies, he could conquer this entire world without a great deal of trouble.  It’s so primitive that resistance would likely be difficult, even against so few.”

  
I was mildly offended at that assessment, but kept quiet.

 

“But he would need an ally here on the planet—someone who knew the customs and how to manipulate those in power,” Holmes said, rising abruptly.  “Someone who already had an extensive network of the greedy and power-hungry in place, who’d leap at the opportunity for easy conquest. Do not underestimate the tenacious independence of our people. Even if he subdued the armies with superior technology, he couldn’t hold power for long without help.”

 

“Moriarty,” I said softly.

 

“Yes.” Holmes nodded.  “Professor James Moriarty is one of the premier—if not _the_ premier—criminals in the world.  He’s brilliant, and entirely without scruples.  It’s power and control he loves, more than money.  He controls major crime operations all over Britain and Europe—and probably the States—with an iron fist.”

 

Qui-Gon tucked his hands into his sleeves.  “That makes sense.  I believe I may even have seen this Moriarty, during one of my brief moments of consciousness.”

 

“Tall, emaciated, deep-sunken eyes? Moves his head back and forth like a snake?”

 

“That was he.”

 

“Moriarty,” my friend confirmed.  He hissed between his teeth.  “What has that fiend started now?”

 

“But that doesn’t explain Mailen’s unusual raid,” Ben said.  “I very much doubt that, brilliant as he is, Moriarty could have planned a successful raid on the Sluis Van shipyards.  Even with the knowledge that civilization beyond his home planet exists, it is impossible for him to have either the experience or the knowledge to do such a thing with security measures and other things far beyond his ken.”

 

“Are you so certain?” Holmes asked.  “I will be the first to admit I know very little about your society, or your scientific capabilities, but I think given enough research material and a healthy imagination—which, I assure you, I _do_ have whatever Watson may claim—I might just have a chance at doing such a thing.”

 

Derry chuckled, genuinely delighted.  “I’d like to see you try, Mr. Holmes.  That would be fascinating indeed.”  He sobered a little.  “However, I agree with Obi-Wan.  Even if Moriarty were given years’ worth of reading material, hard knowledge just doesn’t measure up to actual experience.  Mailen _must_ have an offworld ally.”

 

“That’s another thing,” Ben said slowly.  “I’ve found it difficult to keep a read on his men.  First the man who shot me, and the men we fought earlier. It comes and goes, but it almost seems as though someone is deliberately blocking attempts to read them.”

 

“Some non-Jedi have natural shields,” Derry suggested.  “It’s possible that was the case back there.”

 

“All of them at once?” Qui-Gon returned.  “I doubt that. Surely you noticed it when you arrived?”

 

“Actually, no,” MacEiver said, looking a little puzzled.  “I didn’t sense anything unusual at all.  But I believe you, Master Jinn, and I agree—it’s pushing it to claim that over a score of people all working for the same criminal could have the same talent.  Is it possible that Mailen is a Force-sensitive?”

 

That was the second time I’d heard that word used in a manner that suggested it was not the sort of force I was used to hearing about. Qui-Gon was shaking his head.  “No.  I find that extremely unlikely.  If he did,” he added with a slight smile, “he would certainly be a better pirate.”

 

“What is this ‘Force’ you’ve referred to?” I asked, unable to ignore it any longer.

 

They blinked at me, like startled cats.  Then MacEiver stirred.  “The Force is…” he hesitated.  “It’s a power, generated by all living things.  It surrounds us, and binds us together.  It’s what makes life possible.  Some people have the ability to sense it, and manipulate it—I imagine that, during the fight, you saw Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan do things that you would have, until today, considered impossible?”

 

I thought back to how Qui-Gon had knocked those men back with a flip of his hand, and somehow brought his weapon sailing through the air to him, and nodded.

 

“Jedi have the ability to use the Force.  We are trained, almost from infancy, in its proper use.”

 

“Proper use?” said Holmes sharply. “Meaning that it can be abused.”

 

“Oh, yes,” Qui-Gon replied.  “There is both a Dark side and Light side to the Force.  The path to the Dark side is the path of fear, anger, and hate.  It’s the easier path, but in the end, it ultimately destroys its user.  The Light side is the rougher way, but when it all boils down, it is the more powerful.”

 

Holmes looked thoughtful.  “Light and Dark, good and evil.  God and Satan,” he said.  “The powers that dominate human life.  Somehow, it’s comforting to know that such things are universal.”

 

I stared at him, a bit startled.  Holmes had never indicated to me that he had any views on religion whatsoever—and though this wasn’t really an indication one way or the other, it was more than he’d ever said on the subject.

  
He smiled at me, reading my thoughts.  “What, Watson, don’t you ever contemplate the infinite?”

 

“Well, yes, but—”

 

“And that I don’t? Come, now, my dear fellow. Everyone does.”  He turned back to the Jedi.  “So you think this Mailen might have some of the same abilities you do?”

 

Qui-Gon shook his head. “I very much doubt it.  Force-users are generally identifiable, even if they don’t consciously use it, because they tend to have faster reflexes than is normal, and a more advanced ability to think quickly on their feet.”

 

I eyed Holmes speculatively.  MacEiver caught my look.  “But not all people who have abnormal reflexes and brains are Force-users,” he said. 

 

“Not the first time anyone has ever accused me of having an abnormal brain,” Holmes responded lightly. 

 

“Mailer is none of the above,” Qui-Gon continued, looking mildly frustrated at the interruptions. 

 

My associate steepled his long fingers together.  “If that is so, then it stands to reason that your thief’s other ally…offworld, I believe was the term you used, _is_ a ‘Force’ sensitive.”

 

There was an uneasy silence.  Derry rose then, startling us all. “I’m going to go try and raise Ilein on the comm. again,” he said, a worried line appearing between his eyebrows.  “And if I can’t get a response there, I’m taking the shuttle up to check personally.  This is not good at all.”

 

MacEiver nodded his assent.  He saw the stocky Jedi to the door, and turned back to the group.  His gaze fell on Holmes and I.  “I am going to ask Qui-Gon and his Padawan to escort you back to your home.  They will stay with you until tomorrow, and we will go from there.  It’s late.”

  
 I glanced at my pocket watch.  “Good heavens, so it is.  Mrs. Hudson will be beside herself.”

 

MacEiver started to say something, then apparently thought better of it.  “Master Qui-Gon, are you agreeable to this?

 

“I think it would be best,” the tall man said.  “I sense that there is a great deal of danger in store for all of us.” His blue-grey eyes rested on Holmes and I, and I could feel the weight of his gaze settle onto my shoulders.  “Especially for you.” 

 

I wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to me, to Holmes, or to the both of us.

 

***

 

Dawn was breaking when we finally reached the familiar surrounds of Baker Street again.  Things were beginning to stir as cooks began their morning baking, and sent errand boys out for supplies.  Downstairs maids could be seen in the sideyards blacking grates and sweeping the steps.  Few gave us a second glance, despite Qui-Gon’s unusual dress and height, and our general dishabille and unshaven appearance.  As our weary group reached the front steps leading up to 221b, a running patterer bolted by, the morning paper tucked under his arm, headed for the corner where he would ply his trade.

 

Mrs. Hudson met us at the front door, before we even finished climbing the steps.  In that respect, she reminded me of a house mother I’d once had at school, who had seemed to have a sixth sense regarding small boys and mischief.  I don’t recall that my school friends or I had ever managed to pull the wool over that woman’s eyes.  Mrs. Hudson had the same ability.  “Find what you were lookin’ for, then?” she asked, her eyes on Qui-Gon.  If she was upset or annoyed at us for showing up so late (or early, as you’d have it) she gave no sign—but then, she never had, in the almost six years I’d known her.  She fussed occasionally, but for the most part she kept her opinions about her tenants’ activities to herself. 

 

“That we did, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes responded, weariness apparent even in his voice.  I noticed, belatedly, as his jacket gaped open, that he still had the blaster he’d acquired the night before.  “And all in one piece, though that was a tricky proposition for awhile.”

 

She ‘humphed,’ folding her arms across her ample bosom.  “Well, I’ve breakfast waitin’ for you.  And after that, I don’t want to hear a peep of noise from any of you until you’ve had a proper rest. Understood?”

  
A chorus of “Yes, ma’am,” rose from our group, ranging from meekly respectful on Ben’s part to amusement on Holmes’s.  As he passed her in the doorway, Qui-Gon paused, and with a bow, introduced himself.  She accepted his courtly behavior without batting an eye, and welcomed him warmly. 

 

I had not expected to be hungry, after the astonishing events of the previous night, but my body was of a different opinion.  Mrs. Hudson, as usual, had prepared a splendid repast, and even Holmes fell to with a hearty appetite.  Our two guests were silent, only responding to direct questions. All the same, I felt that there was a great deal of communication going on between the two of them.  Watching them interact, even silently, it was evident that they were very close—like father and son, though with more means at hand of communicating than any I had ever known.  I felt a brief twinge of envy.  I’d never seen much of my father.  He’d been a successful businessman, always in the middle of something.  My early childhood years had been spent with either my mother or a governess, and once I was past that, I’d been sent away to school. He’d died, the first year I was in medical school.  I’d felt very little at his funeral—it had been like going to the funeral of a distant acquaintance. Regret that I had never known him better had been what haunted me most during that time and for years afterward.

 

At last Holmes pushed his chair away from the table.  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said with a sigh.  “That went a long way to restoring us from our night.”

 

She gave him a stern look. “Now you’re to go straight to bed, Mr. Holmes,” she ordered.  “You stay out of that study of yours, until you’ve ‘ad a proper rest!” She began bustling about the table, clearing away the breakfast things. 

 

Qui-Gon rose.  “May I assist you?” he asked.

 

Mrs. Hudson stared at him, clearly not sure how to respond to that.

 

“Unlike my companions, I fear I have had altogether too much sleep in the past few days,” he said with a faint smile. 

 

“Well, I—”

 

“I must insist,” he added gently.

 

I shot a glance at Holmes. He shrugged, as if to say: “If he wants to do dishes, then let him.”  Well, it was unusual, but there was little about our guests that wasn’t.  “I’m for bed,” I said.  “See you in a few hours.”  And without waiting to see whether or not Mrs. Hudson allowed Qui-Gon to breach the etiquette of servants and their employers’ guests, I took myself off to my room.

 

***

 

It was late afternoon when I awoke, feeling a great deal better than I had for the past forty-eight hours, though rather in need of a bath.  That was easily remedied, and I spent another hour or so attending to that, before venturing downstairs to see what strange things my associate and our guests might have gotten themselves up to. 

 

The house was quiet, and the absolute lack of noise from either Holmes’s study or his room suggested that, amazingly, he was still asleep.  I glanced into the guest room where we’d housed Ben, and saw only a tangle of arms, legs, and blankets. It never ceased to amaze me the strange positions in which young men could sleep—and I’d seen some strange ones, in the army.  I’d even slept in them myself, once upon a time.  Looking at it now made my joints ache.

 

I could hear quiet conversation in the kitchen, and guessed that Mrs. Hudson had capitulated and allowed Qui-Gon to assist her.  I made my way down the narrow hallway and poked my head in.  She was busy with a piecrust, or something, and he was seated at the table, pushing a cup of tea around.  Sometime during the day he had found some more conventional clothing—Holmes’s, I assumed, as mine would not come close to fitting the large man’s frame.  Since the trouser cuffs were not more than an inch or so too short, I guessed that Mrs. Hudson had taken time to let them out for him.  He wore no coat, and it was apparent the shirt did not fit nearly so well as the trousers, strained as it was across his shoulders and chest, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, because they weren’t long enough, and probably wouldn’t button over his forearms.  He’d pulled his long hair back into a single tail. 

 

They both looked up as I entered.  “Good afternoon, Doctor,” Qui-Gon said.  “Mrs. Hudson was just telling me about your city.”

 

I glanced sharply at him.  “Has she? And have you been telling her about where you’re from?”  I wondered what sort of a story he had concocted for our landlady.

 

“Oh, she’s already quite familiar with Ireland,” the big man replied easily.  “We could find nothing at all to discuss about that.”

  
I blinked.  “Oh.”  Where had he learned enough about Ireland to belay our housekeeper’s suspicions?  Perhaps he had used one of those ‘mind tricks.’ Yes, that seemed quite likely, I thought, eyeing Mrs. Hudson’s blandly innocent countenance.  “And have you proved yourself an able helper?” I asked, trying to change the subject with a bit of humour.

 

“I’ve done a few dishes in my time,” Qui-Gon said. 

 

“Ireg’lar, that’s what it ‘tis,” Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “But, all the same, it didn’t ‘urt.”  She turned back to her piecrust.

 

I took a seat at the table.  “Are you feeling better?” I asked the Jedi.  “Any lingering effects from the drug?”  I could feel the housekeeper listening, though she did not so much as glance at us.

 

“None at all. I’m quite recovered, thank you.  Is Obi-Wan still asleep?”

 

“He is.  Very much so.”

 

The older man smiled fondly.  “It’s just as well. He’s had a far rougher time of it than I have the past few days.  At least I didn’t get shot and run over by a carriage.”

 

“He’s…very resilient,” I said carefully. 

 

“Yes.  We all are.” I assumed that by ‘we’ he meant Jedi.  “He’s probably a bit more resilient than some—he’s had a bit more practice.”

 

“Really.”  My mind shuddered at the implications of that.

 

“He and I are reputed to be somewhat…accident prone.  Though,” he amended dryly, “not more so than any of our group who work out in the field.  Our healers would tell you otherwise, but like all physicians, they are prone to some exaggeration in the hopes it will make their patients behave.”  I was about to respond indignantly to this, when I caught the twinkle in his eyes and realized he was teasing.  “All the same, we’ve both had more than our share of injuries.”

 

“Those of us in dangerous professions seem to collect them,” Holmes said, entering the kitchen.  He was in his shirtsleeves, cravat dangling untied around his neck, and his hair was still wet from a recent washing.  “Ask Watson—he was a soldier not too long ago.”

 

“What about you?” I retorted. “I recall patching you up any number of times, Holmes.”

 

“You have indeed. Why do you think I keep you around?” 

  
”You don’t need me,” I said, my usual response, “you need a wife to keep you out of trouble altogether.”

 

“What a dreadful idea,” he murmured, finishing our long-standing joke.

 

Qui-Gon smiled at the banter, and started to say something, when the bell rang.  Mrs. Hudson responded automatically, dusting the flour and dough from her hands onto her apron, removing it and, hanging it neatly on the hook by the kitchen door, went to answer it.  Those of us remaining in the room stared blankly at one another for a long moment, then went to see who was calling on us.

 

I felt my heart sink as I recognized the slight, ferret-faced man standing in the entryway.  Normally, his presence meant a case of some interest for both Holmes and myself, but in light of all that had happened, his presence was inconvenient, at best.

 

“Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes said evenly.  “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Is it, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, eyeing Qui-Gon with suspicious curiosity, taking in the too-small clothes, the long hair and beard, the strangely brilliant eyes.  Lestrade didn’t hold a candle to Holmes (of which he was painfully aware, and of which Holmes was always quick to point out to him) but he was still more observant than most, and the Jedi’s oddities were not lost on him.

 

“What brings you here on such a fine day?” my friend continued, ignoring the barb.

“There was an unusual disturbance in Whitechapel last night,” the inspector said.  “Very nearly a war, if some reports are to be believed.”

 

“What makes you think I had anything to do with that?” Holmes asked, all innocence. “I abhor violence.”

 

The policeman snorted.  “Unless you can’t convince someone to listen to you any other way.”

 

“It is impossible to convince some people of the error of their ways without hitting them, as hard and as often as possible,” Holmes agreed lightly.  “But come now, if this ‘disturbance’ was very near a war, what makes you think I’d anything at all to do with it? I prefer more subtle methods.”

 

“One of the witnesses I spoke to gave me a description that sounded remarkably like you.  Of course,” Lestrade added with a scowl, “he also was blathering about flying machines and beams of light.”

 

“I should think that would give you some indication of his reliability, Inspector,” Holmes responded with a thin smile. 

 

“Hmph.  Who’s this?” the inspector nodded toward Qui-Gon.  I knew Lestrade well enough to know that Holmes’s response may not have wholly convinced him, but he would leave it alone, and so changed the subject.

 

“A cousin of mine, from Ireland,” my associate lied smoothly.  “He and his son Benjamin are paying a visit.”

 

“James Brien,” Qui-Gon replied, as cool as Holmes. 

 

Lestrade shook his hand amiably enough, but his eyes were sharp.  “I didn’t know Holmes had any living relatives other than his brother.”

 

 

“Everybody assumes that Mycroft and I just came into being, fully formed,” Holmes said to Qui-Gon dryly.  “Like Athena from the forehead of Zeus.”

 

“It is a little difficult to imagine you as a child, Holmes,” I said.  “You never talk about your childhood.”

 

“We were horrible children,” he replied with a sardonic smile.  “Mycroft devoured the library and argued philosophy with anyone who would hold still for five minutes, and I blew up things.  Needless to say, our parents were rather relieved to see us grow up and leave. They never had a moment’s peace with us around.”

 

Lestrade tugged at the bottom of his jacket, looking uncomfortable.  Apparently, that was more than he’d wanted to know about the Holmes brothers’ childhood.  “Well, then, if you are telling me the truth, and you weren’t in Whitechapel last night, I’d best be going.”  His gaze, resting on Holmes, suggested that he didn’t believe at all that Holmes hadn’t been in Whitechapel.  “Good day, Mrs. Hudson.” He tipped his hat to her.  He was always polite to her, and yet I’d never seen him behave that way toward other servants he came in contact with.  Brusque and efficient he was with them, like he was with most people.  Something about our landlady, I suppose, inspired automatic politeness—except with Holmes, of course.  

 

As soon as he’d gone, Holmes let out an exasperated sigh.  “Perfect.  Now Lestrade’s hackles are up.  Next it’ll be the Prime Minister.” 

 

“Who’s Lestrade?”

 

We glanced up to see Ben coming down the stairs.  He was wearing the loose pants Holmes and I had found him in, with the light undertunic hanging open over his bare chest.  He was barefoot as well.  I was mildly shocked.  Apparently, they had different standards of morning dress where he came from.

 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said reprovingly.

 

I glanced at Mrs. Hudson to see her reaction to our young guest’s dishabille.  Of all of us, she was the one whose sensibilities were most likely to be shaken.  To my everlasting surprise, there was actually a faintly amused smile playing around her lips.  She must have felt my stare, for she glanced at me, the expression vanishing so quickly I might have imagined it, and took herself off to the kitchen.

 

“What?” The young man stared blankly at his master.

 

“Try to have some regard for the standards of the society we’re among.”

 

“I don’t know what you—oh. Sorry.” Ben glanced down at his attire and went back up the stairs.    “So who’s Lestrade?” he shouted down.

 

Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head in despair.  “I’ve tried to teach him better manners.  But he never listens.”

 

Holmes shrugged. “I’ve never stood much on convention,” he said.  “If it doesn’t send Mrs. Hudson into a screaming fit, then I don’t really care—and trust me, ‘cousin,’ I have yet to see _anything_ send her into hysterics.  She’s got remarkably steady nerves, for a woman.”

 

Qui-Gon did not respond to that, but he smiled.  I thought it a rather strange smile.

 

***

Lestrade’s visit proved to be the most exciting thing that happened all afternoon.  Our guests, despite the urgency they had displayed the night previous, suddenly became as inscrutable—and as lazy—as cats.  I got tired of waiting for something interesting to happen, and left to pay a call on my fiancée before she called off the wedding entirely.  Holmes, as far as I knew, planned to spend the afternoon pumping the two Jedi for as much information as they were willing to tell him.  I did not envy them a bit—Holmes could be dauntingly persistent.  Everyone was occupied with something when I decided to leave, so I scrawled a hasty note and left it on the hall table.

 

Upon exiting the house, I discovered the day to be very fine, clear and crisp, with just a hint of a breeze to keep the air sweet.  I found my heart lifting for the first time since I’d become involved in this mess. Truthfully, I would never have the disposition required to find happiness in Holmes’s line of work.  Though I found working with him to be fascinating, exciting, and morally satisfying, I had long ago found that I preferred the sunlight world and the smiling faces of innocence to the world of shadows and smoke that Holmes moved in.  Not for the first time, I wondered what, truly, had driven Holmes into his profession, and had continued to drive him through the long, lonely years.

 

I wondered if Holmes ever longed for the sunlight.

 

I pushed the worrying thoughts from my mind and tried to merely enjoy the walk. It had seemed an eternity since I had last done anything so simple as take a stroll–though in truth only a few days–and it was exceedingly pleasant, as was the prospect of spending a few peaceful hours with my betrothed.

 

***

 

The waning sun slanted in through the windows of my study, staining the scattered papers that cluttered every available surface a blood red.  I sat in my favorite chair; the stem of my pipe clenched between my teeth, and did my utmost to hold onto my patience.

 

Forced inactivity has always driven me wild, even when necessary.  Watson accuses me of being hyperactive.  I disagree.  I merely dislike sitting around like a lump.

 

At last I could stand it no longer, and leaped up from my chair to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. The older of the two Jedi was seated across from me in Watson’s customary place.  “You seem agitated, Mr. Holmes,” he observed.

 

I did not favor that blatant statement of the obvious with a reply, instead turning to the subject that was foremost in my mind.  “What exactly are we doing here?  You must know, ‘James Brien,’ that I highly detest waiting around on anyone’s whim but my own.  Why hasn’t MacEiver contacted us?”

 

“He will once he has his orders.  Patience, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“I can be as patient as a spider,” I flared, “ _when_ I have good reason to be.  Give me a reason, and I will show you patience.  _This_ appears to me as nothing more than sitting around and waiting for something to happen.”

 

The study door opened and the younger Jedi entered. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, with a small bow. “But Mrs. Hudson found this in the hall and thought you should see it.” He extended a piece of notepaper to me.  It was the heavy linen, 100 weight writing paper that Watson favored, and I immediately recognized his disgraceful doctor’s handwriting crawling across the page. 

 

“Thank you,” I murmured, taking the note.  Ben remained by the door, and though his face held its usual non-expression I could sense anxiety in every line of his tense body.  Had he received word from MacEiver? Or was there something else?

 

The contents of the note, however, shoved any thoughts of my brother’s bizarre acquaintance and Obi-Wan’s agitation from my head. I felt my face go rigid, as I long ago trained it to do when I did not wish unwanted emotion to show through.  It did not fool my guests, with their ability to sense emotion. 

 

“What is it?” asked Jinn sharply.

 

I didn’t answer, rereading the note.  What _was_ he thinking? We’d only just escaped with our lives the night before, and likely had an underworld’s worth of criminals hunting us, and he decided to go off and see his fiancée without so much as a word? This was one of the many reasons why I long ago decided that romance was a ridiculous prospect. It addled the brains of even the most brilliant–and as dear a fellow and good a physician as Watson is, he is hardly brilliant.

 

“Doctor Watson left the house some time ago,” I heard Ben explaining. “He left a note.”

 

The paper crumpled in my hand. “The fool didn’t stop and think,” I growled. “Moriarty knows he and I were there last night, and he’ll be looking for vengeance.” I flung the note down and reached for my coat, lying in a heap in the corner of the couch.  “I’m going to fetch him at once.”

 

“It isn’t safe for you out there either,” Jinn said. “We’ll come with you.”

 

I eyed his ill-fitting attire skeptically. “I fear that you would only draw attention.”

 

“Is the average person truly such a fashion critic?” he asked pointedly.  “With a coat on, I hardly think anyone will notice.”

 

My argument had been a feeble one, and he had duly shot it down.  I could think of no other protest and, honestly, had little desire to.  After seeing the pair of them in action the night before, even one of them as a companion would go far to settle my mind.  I am not a coward, and have seen and dealt more than my share of violence, but I am not a fool. Whatever suicidal tendencies Watson has ever accused me of are largely unfair, though understandable coming from a man who was once an army doctor. 

 

“Very well,” I said, making no effort to disguise the relief and gratitude that colored my voice. “I think it would be wise, however, if one of you remained here. Moriarty is not above striking even at our dear, innocent Mrs. Hudson. You stay here, Ben.”

 

I saw an odd expression cross the younger man’s face–likely a prelude to a protest at my peremptory orders, or at being left behind, or both–but a rumbled “I think that’s wise, Obi-Wan,” from his master chased it away and left the complaint unsaid. 

 

“Yes, sir.” To my surprise, the expression now on his face was not one of displeasure, or even resignation, but faint amusement.  Perhaps it was at the prospect of remaining within easy reach of Mrs. Hudson’s generous pantry. “Shall I inform her of her bodyguard?”

 

“For heaven’s sake, no!” I exclaimed. “There’s no need to alarm her! Your master and I are going out, that’s all, and you’d rather not.”

 

“Very well. Safe journey.” He bowed again and glided from the room.

 

“A well mannered young man,” I observed. A silly comment, but I hoped it would prompt an informative response from Jinn. The man was damnably hard to read, but I guessed that if I wanted to get any sort of indication about his inner character, his relationship with his apprentice was the path.

 

“Yes. I’m quite proud of him.”

 

“His parents must be as well,” I suggested.

 

The glance he turned toward me was faintly amused, and my respect for him went up a few notches as I realized he knew very well what I was doing.  “He never knew his parents. Jedi are taken into the Order almost from infancy. I took him as my Padawan learner–my apprentice–when he was ten.”

 

“Ah.” I smiled thinly. It would not do, of course, to thank him directly for being so obliging in giving me more information, but I think he understood.  Of course, it told me little that I had not already guessed–that the relationship was less master-apprentice than it was father-son.  But as Watson has often informed the world, I dislike guesses, preferring to know rather than hypothesize. 

 

A coat from my collection fit well enough over Jinn’s wide shoulders, though as with his shirt it was woefully short in the wrist. My adoration of hidden pockets in every available item of clothing made concealing his lightsaber an easy task. I exchanged my threadbare dressing gown for a walking coat and bowler, checked my own arsenal of hidden weapons, and we were ready to leave.

The bloodstained sunset was fading to lavender and grey overhead, though a great deal of light remained visible westward over the buildings.  A pleasant evening, so far as weather was concerned. I could understand why Watson had felt such a keen desire to go out of doors. My friend is an incurable romantic, with all the quirks and defects that implied, but I would not wish him any other way. Watson reminds me, by his mere presence, just what it is I have dedicated my life to protecting.  It would be a sad world indeed without the great, romantic innocents like John Watson, M.D. 

 

The home of Watson’s fiancee was not far from my residence on Baker Street, a walk of some fifteen minutes or so.  Jinn and I, long-legged, managed it in seven, and I rang the front bell with perhaps a little more force than was truly necessary.

 

The servant who opened the door was nearly my height, but a bit too fond of rich foods, as his impressive girth attested. “Is Doctor Watson here?” I demanded.

 

“Who–”

 

I did not wait for him to finish before pushing past him into the foyer. “Watson?” My voice rang loudly in the modest house. “Watson!”

 

Miss Marston appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Holmes! What are you doing here?”

 

“I must speak to Watson at once.” Behind me, Jinn was attempting to soothe the ruffled manservant. “Where is he?”

 

A puzzled expression appeared on her delicate features.  “He isn’t here, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“I must–what?”

 

“He isn’t here. I haven’t seen him since tea yesterday.”

 

My stomach dropped, and I found myself groping for something to say. A very worried look was growing all over my partner’s future wife’s face.  “Ah...I apologize for disturbing you then, Miss Marston. I thought...he had come to visit you.” Lord, what a pathetic act! I hadn’t done so poorly in a very long time.  Of course, a small part of my mind observed, I hadn’t been this worried in a very long time, either.

 

Jinn came up behind me. “If he is not here...”

 

“I know,” I snapped softly. “Again, accept my apologies, Miss Marston. He must have gone to see a patient. Excuse us.”

 

She called after me, but I pretended not to hear. That she was worried I knew, but I also knew that worry would increase a hundredfold if I shared my fears with her.  I waited until we were a good distance from her residence before exploding.  Jinn waited patiently as I made several observations on Watson’s naivete, my stupidity, and the ancestry of our enemies. The last was made in a much quieter tone, the good breeding of my childhood preventing me from making so public a display of my frustration.

 

“They have him, James, I know it.”

 

“Most probably. I feared something like this would happen.”

 

“Oh, you know everything, don’t you,” I snarled. “Fortune telling?”

 

“I do occasionally receive glimpses of possible future events,” he replied placidly, thoroughly unruffled by my rudeness.

 

Perversely, his calm demeanor only irritated me further. “Then perhaps you could ‘glimpse’ where he might be?” The part of me that always remained a detached observer winced at the sarcasm dripping from my voice. He really didn’t deserve my anger, but there was no one else around to take it out on.

 

“The future is always in motion. Infinite variables from the choices we make can shift it.”

 

“You just said you ‘foresaw’ Watson’s kidnaping.”

 

“Watson’s kidnaping was a possibility, nothing more. As I told you last night, there is great danger present for the both of you.”

 

I grunted in reply, my mind already leaving the conversation to trace the varied possibilities. That Moriarty had taken Watson I was absolutely certain. But was it a direct part of the strange plot that had brought the Jedi here? Or was it merely a continuation of Moriarty’s personal vendetta against me? 

 

***

 

I swam up out of heavy fog, my head throbbing worse than a bout of cholera. For a brief, disoriented moment I was back in the wastelands of Afghanistan, battling the illness even as I fought to save the lives of my battalion. I remembered little of that month, save that too many had died before the supply train had arrived with the proper medicine. I sat up, sweating, panicked, before I realized that my surrounds were cold stone and mildew, not sun-stained canvas and dust.

 

I attempted to rise, only to discover that my muscles were flaccid and unresponsive. The last few–minutes? hours? days?–were a black void.  How had I gotten here? My thoughts were a sluggish as my limbs, but I recalled the discovery of Ben, the meeting with MacEiver, the battle in Whitechapel, and most of the discussion immediately afterwards.  After that events became fuzzy and uncertain. I dimly recalled walking down a crowded street. Then...nothing.

 

“Ah, Doctor. You’re awake. Excellent.”

I had not heard the door open, and this disturbed me greatly. I have not Holmes’ powers of observation, but I _had_ been a soldier, and not a bad one. Holmes was one of the only people who could sneak up on me.  The pure Oxford accent, breaking my thoughts like glass, was the first indication I had that I was no longer alone.

 

Raising my eyes I saw a man who might have been tall, were it not for the stooped shoulders that gave the vague impression of a hunchback. This effect was further exaggerated by an overlarge head set upon an emaciated neck. Sunken eyes glittered with a terrifying intelligence. I was put in mind of Holmes’ keen grey gaze, but this man’s eyes held no warmth, no compassion. Holmes, for all his presentation of a calculating thinking machine, was still an approachable human being. Intimidating, perhaps, but in him existed both warmth and compassion. No such thing existed in the icy blue eyes that held mine. 

 

“I feared we had given you too much sedative,” the newcomer continued, moving away from the door. It closed as silently as it had opened. There was no rattle of a lock. The man moving toward me had a peculiar way of moving his head back and forth in an almost hypnotic fashion. I was put in mind of the mouse confronted by a cobra–and I think it goes without saying who was the mouse. “You are suffering no ill effects?”

 

“No more than expected from having been rendered unconscious and kidnaped,” I replied with as much cool as I could muster.  “Professor James Moriarty, I presume?” It could only be he. I had never laid eyes on the man, but Holmes could be powerfully descriptive. It is rare that a person resembles one’s mental picture, but in this case Moriarty matched perfectly the image I had built of him., though I had never imagined a man’s eyes could be so cold...

 

He half-smiled and acknowledged my identification with a little nod. “I have heard much about you, Doctor Watson. And of course I have read your colorful articles in the _Strand_ magazine.  You have a certain talent for writing.  No doubt your friend appreciates your enthusiastic documentation of his work.”

 

“He often claims otherwise,” I responded shortly. “But I do not believe him displeased.”

 

Again Moriarty’s lips drew back into a thin-lipped smile. “A man such as Sherlock Holmes thrives on praise. Without it, he is nothing.”

 

This was patently untrue.  Holmes did not truly mind my writing up of some of his more interesting cases. It was good advertising, and good for his reputation, but I could not number the times he had allowed Scotland Yard or some other agency take credit for a case he had solved.  He was not the most modest man I had ever met, but a glory hound he was not by any definition of the world. I opened my mouth to protest this injustice, remembered to whom I was speaking, and closed it again, the protest unvoiced.  Moriarty’s chilling smile grew a little wider.

 

“What is it you want with me?” I demanded. “I know nothing that is of use.”

“A truer statement I never heard,” Moriarty agreed, rather insultingly.  “But it is not your brains I desire, Doctor Watson. Rather your pleasant company.”

 

“To trap Holmes?” I guessed. It was the most obvious reason, after all. “Ridiculous. He will not walk into so blatant a trap.”

 

“Won’t he? I think otherwise. Sherlock Holmes’ great failing is that he allows himself to rely too much upon others. He becomes dependent, and thus creates weakness. His concern for you, his friend, will lead him to make foolish decisions. I have no such weaknesses–which is why, my good doctor, I will defeat Holmes despite his tiring persistence in foiling my plans.” The professor began a slow circuit around me, his head swaying.  “Relationships, emotion...weakness. They only render one vulnerable.”

 

“You have a bleak view of the world,” I said. “I should not wish to walk in your shoes.”

 

“That is because you are a weak romantic. I will give credit to your friend, he avoids entanglements with women–the greatest of weaknesses–but he cannot break his addiction to...friendship.” He sneered slightly.

 

As to women...well, Holmes had a very low opinion of romance, it is true.  I am of the private opinion that, rather than a genuine hatred of the female sex, it was because he could not imagine entering a deep emotional relationship with a woman who was not his intellectual equal. In his mind, such an unequal bond would never thrive.  Indeed, it probably would not, for a man like my friend. He threw his whole heart into whatever he pursued, and a romance destined to wither would only be fatally destructive. A woman who could not keep up with him would be doomed to shrink in his presence, and that, to Holmes, would not be tolerable. Even in our friendship, he has never allowed me to settle back and be content with things as they are. He has always pushed, driven, dragged me to become better. It is a gift, to those who can stomach it. Those who come into his circle and refuse to change inevitably wind up despising and resenting him.  Lestrade has trod that perilous line many times, but even he has become better for knowing Sherlock Holmes. Holmes never spoke of it, but I knew that his gift, or curse, whatever you might name it, had brought more pain into his life than he liked to admit. Looking at Moriarty, I suddenly realized that this man–cold, perhaps even more brilliant that Holmes–could never understand what it was my friend held. He saw it as a weakness, but to my mind it was a strength that Moriarty could never realize though he take control of all the world.

 

All this passed through my mind in a heartbeat, followed by the realization that, though he was fundamentally and morally wrong about Holmes’ character, the sinister professor was perfectly right in one thing: Holmes _would_ almost certainly try to find me and rescue me, and so walk into a trap.

 

_Surely not. Surely Holmes is smart enough to know it will be a trap, and he will outwit Moriarty at his own game._

 

  1.   The uncertainty was crippling. Holmes was not perfect, as I knew only too well. He had been foiled, many times, including by Moriarty, and made stupid mistakes or foolish decisions. The image I built of Holmes in the _Strand_ was that of a man who almost never failed, who was virtually unbeatable. The bane and nightmare of the criminal minded. It served his business well, and the nearly overwhelming confidence Holmes usually exuded only strengthened the image.



 

But he was as human as I, and just as capable of making a botch of things.

 

It was not a revelation I found pleasant. Even I, who knew him better than perhaps anyone save his brother, forgot about his failings.  Looking into the dead eyes of his archnemesis I suddenly feared that this human frailty was exactly what Moriarty was counting on.

 

In which case, I would be better served getting myself out of this as soon as possible. I had the sudden impression that Moriarty viewed me as hardly more intelligent than a bug a child had trapped in a box, helpless and unable to escape.  It was a more exaggerated version of the way I had noticed certain readers of the _Strand_ saw me. (My own fault, I suppose, in giving such an impression in my writings...although it might also be blamed on Conan Doyle, who edited them.)

 

“Holmes will come to the bait as surely as a bee to honey,” Moriarty continued with overweening arrogance. “And he will be mine to dispose of, to trouble me no more.”

 

“I’m surprised,” I said blandly, “that you see him as such a threat, considering how ‘weak’ you consider him. Hardly worth your effort, I should say.”

 

Moriarty seemed to find this comment vastly amusing, for he gave voice to a chuckle that set my spine crawling. “Eight years ago I might have agreed,” he said amiably. “When he first fouled up a plan of mine. Blind amateur luck, from a young puppy too smart for his own good. However,” he continued, his voice returning to its former crispness, “his streak of ‘luck’ has proved remarkable. That I am smarter than he I know, but I never,” Moriarty fixed me with his chilling stare, “I _never_ make the mistake of underestimating an enemy.”

 

Was that a warning to me? Perhaps. It was depressingly possible that this evil man did not see me as a helpless bug after all. Perhaps he could guess my every thought, my every intent.

 

Would that stop me from trying?

 

 

***

 

Our return to Baker Street was silent after the exchange outside Miss Marston’s home. My mind was working furiously, but with no useful results aside from several colorful and highly tempting scenarios about what I would do to Moriarty when I finally got my hands on him.  Entertaining, but ineffective. I was in no state of mind to do anything constructive with my current problem. Though it was difficult, I shoved the matter to the back portion of my mind to stew while I sought for something to distract my here-and-now consciousness.

 

Seated again in my study, ‘James Brien’ once more in the armchair, it seemed as if we’d never left, that the events of the last hour and a half had been nothing more than a long daydream. Would that it were. Against my will, my eyes strayed to a certain drawer in the dresser by the door to my changing room. In that drawer resided a small box, its contents a vial and a hypodermic needle...

 

No. Though I was reluctant to admit it to him, I knew Watson was right about my ‘seven-percent solution.’ Initially I had disbelieved the good doctor’s assertions that it was a dangerous and addictive substance I should drop immediately. It seemed, at first, nothing more than a harmless means of pushing my brain into activity.  I waved away his warnings, and was confident that, even were it as he said, _I_ certainly would never allow a substance to control me.

 

However, one cannot make a living as the finest consulting detective in England and consistently deceive oneself. Lately I had (very reluctantly) become aware that I was turning to the seven-percent solution more and more, particularly in times of inactivity or dullness. It loomed large in my mind frequently as an easy solution to solving a problem...except that it wasn’t, not really. An illusion of accelerated mental processes, followed by lethargy. And in a disturbingly large number of instances when I had turned to cocaine when I was truly baffled, I had still failed. The few successes I’d had while taking it I honestly felt could not really be attributed to its affects.

 

I would stop its use. I had to...and the thought of actually doing so seemed an insurmountable climb.

 

I became aware that Qui-Gon was frowning at me from his position in the armchair. “Something is disturbing you.”

 

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly, waving a hand to ward off his concern and to banish the dark thoughts consuming my mind. Remembering a question I had been itching to ask since my first meeting with MacEiver. “Why are the Jedi here, really?”

 

“I believe Taryn–excuse me, MacEiver–told you. Observing, until this planet can be contacted for membership in the Republic.”

 

I lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Even though the borders of your Republic are so very far away? Surely there are other planets closer, both in distance and in development.”

 

The big man shrugged. “True. I don’t know the entire setup of our operation here, but from what MacEiver told me, as well as the information I pulled from Haven’s files, this planet is of interest to the Galactic Anthropological Society, because of where it is in its development. You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that most of the planets in the Galactic Republic have long since become a unified, single-government, single-culture planet. This planet, in its primitive state, presents a very intriguing variety of cultures and government systems. A GAS survey ship discovered Earth, oh, thirty years ago or so. They wanted to get some people here to study it, but the Senate was reluctant to let their anthropologists take up residence. I’m afraid the GAS scholars tend more towards the...enthusiastic...rather than the subtle. None of the people they wanted to come here were qualified both to study the planet and keep a low profile. But the GAS was determined, and they finally reached a compromise: the Senate would allow them to study Earth, but only through agents trained to disappear into virtually any culture in the galaxy.”

 

“I take it the Jedi were those agents.” Briefly, I wondered where on earth Qui-Gon had found the time to speak with MacEiver privately and do research on their operations here.

 

He nodded. “The galaxy at large’s image of us is as you found myself and my apprentice: long robes, tunics, lightsabers. Our uniform, if you will, instantly recognizable by virtually everyone in the Republic. A useful front, but hardly practical for anything but our diplomatic and peace-settlement duties.  Pirate hunting, plot breaking, and other such activities require more...subtlety.  We are given an extremely good education in a wide variety of subjects and skills. The Force augments and accelerates our ability to learn. We are among the most effective covert operatives in the galaxy.”

 

“I noticed,” I said dryly, recalling MacEiver’s most convincing masquerade as a Scotsman. “So that is how these Jedi came to be here. Though I would think that one or two would be sufficient.”

 

“There are a great many cultures here,” Qui-Gon asserted. “And,” he added with a faint smile, “I might suggest that most of the Knights here are here because they needed to...disappear...from the Republic for awhile.”

 

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly.

 

“We make a great many enemies in our line of work,” he explained, “some of them quite implacable. This planet is not registered anywhere in Republic records, either in the government or in the GAS. That was _our_ condition for allowing the Society to appropriate our services.”

 

“I see,” I replied, steepling my fingers. Though he was perhaps not aware of it, I had learned far more from Qui-Gon Jinn than he had said, or intended to reveal. These Jedi might, upon first impression, seem reserved, impossible to read. Most people probably continued to find them so. The Jedi might even have believed so themselves. 

 

I, however, saw very well indeed.

 

***

 

They had taken my pocket watch along with my jacket, so I had no idea what time it was. The room in which I was imprisoned was small, six feet by eight feet square, and windowless. It was old, judging from the rough stone blocks that formed the walls and floor, and the heavy, dusty smell of countless years. This observation did me little good. London, after all, is a very old city. I could be anywhere. I prowled the length and width of my prison several hundred times, tested the door, kicked at the walls (in the off-chance I might discover a loose stone?) but only gained a scuffed shoe and bruised toes for my troubles.

 

Some time after Moriarty left me the first time a narrow cot was brought in, and a chamber pot. The cot was flimsy wood and canvas, completely useless as a weapon, and though the pot was of heavy ceramic, it had clearly been broken once and glued back together, dashing any hopes I had in it.

 

I was sitting on the cot–which was even more uncomfortable (if it were possible) than the military issue ones I had once been closely acquainted with–when a man arrived with a tray of food. He set it down by the door and was gone before I could do more than half-rise. Once again, the tray and all its accouterments were too flimsy to be used in any useful fashion. I wondered if I ought to be flattered.

 

There was a bowl of what I took to be stew. It resembled stew, at any rate, though not in any appetizing form. Greyish chunks of unidentifiable meat floated in greasy liquid, with a few dissolving lumps that might have been potatoes.  The cup contained musty smelling water. There were no utensils.

 

I picked up the bowl and took a cautious sip. It was pretty bad, but not inedible.  I gulped the lukewarm stuff down, trying not to think of Mrs. Hudson’s delectable repasts. I had to keep my strength up. Finishing the stew and the water, I curled up on the cot and tried to sleep. 

 

My dreams were troubled, plagued with nightmarish scenes of my military campaigns, only the enemy of my dream visions was armed with lightsabers and blasters, wreaking carnage through Her Majesty’s ranks.  I stood in a battlefield, the battle over or moved elsewhere, surrounded by the dead. Ahead of me, standing on top of a pile of fallen, was a tall man, a glowing lightsaber held in one hand.  His back was to me, his form obscured in shadow as I drew near.

 

_“The wall is breached.”_

 

I paused as the voice rolled over me, hardly more than a whisper, harsh as a crow’s call.  The silhouette half turned toward me, the harsh angles of his face illuminated in the glow from his weapon’s blade. It was maddeningly familiar, but I could not put a name to it.

 _“The wall is breached,”_ he repeated. _“Power spills like water poured on sand.”_

 

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. 

 

 _“Danger. The Dark rises...”_ All at once I was engulfed in a howling gale that tore at flesh and clothing alike. Icy water cut into my skin, and the wind drove me backwards. I was falling, and there was nothing to grasp, nothing around me but the screaming wind and rain...

 

I sat up with a gasp, in time to see the door of my cell open. My body reacted even before my brain came fully awake. Launching myself from the cot, I tackled the newcomer in a fit of desperate strength, bearing him down beneath my weight. The door, which he had been in the act of closing, banged open against the outside wall. Startled shouts came dimly to my ears. I paid them no heed. The overwhelming need to escape drowned out all else.

 

It was a simple matter to subdue the man I’d attacked. He was smaller than I, and slender. My arm wound around his throat, choking off his cries, and I pulled us both to our feet, intending to use him as a shield. He had been armed with a blaster, which I appropriated and held at ready as I moved out of my cell into the narrow hall.

 

Three men, two armed with blasters, the third with an ordinary pistol, awaited me.  I raised my own weapon higher, hoping that my hostage would delay their fire long enough for me to even the odds somewhat.

 

An impasse ensued, the four of us eyeing each other warily, my captive struggling feebly against the choke hold in which I held him. My mind raced frantically, trying to formulate a feasible plan for getting out of here.

 

Then Moriarty stepped into view, framed in the doorway behind the three men facing me. He held by one arm a girl of about ten years. In the other hand he held a long bladed knife.

 

“Doctor Watson,” he greeted me, as casually as if we had met while walking in Hyde Park. His pale eyes took in the scene. “How...resourceful of you.”

 

My heart in my throat, I turned the barrel of my blaster from my original targets and placed it against my captive’s temple. “Call your men off, Moriarty,” I rasped. “Or I will kill him.”

 

“Go ahead,” Moriarty replied pleasantly. He pulled the child he held closer and laid the knife across her throat. “And I will end this one’s life.”

 

My blood chilled. Surely even Moriarty wouldn’t kill a child...but as I held his implacable gaze and saw the very real terror in the girl’s eyes I decided that he would indeed. “Don’t...” I began.

“Release him,” the professor said coolly. “Drop your weapon and walk back into your cell.”

 

What other choice did I have? I did as the arch-criminal ordered, pushing my captive away from me and dropping the blaster. Keeping my hands in sight I backed slowly into the tiny room and sat down on the cot. Moriarty appeared in the doorway a moment later. I was relieved to see that he had released the child.

 

“I see you do not appreciate my hospitality,” he observed dryly.

 

I chose not to respond.

 

“I will issue you a warning,” he continued, “only once.  Further attempts to escape, any further problems at all, will result in consequences.  First, I will kill that child and her head will be brought to you on the next meal tray.”

 

I eyed him with cold hatred. “You’re bluffing.”

 

“I am not.” Moriarty smiled. “She is the daughter of one of my men.  And before you get any ideas about finding an ally in her concerned father, I assure you he would hardly notice. He is not the family sort of man.”

 

“You said ‘first.’ What follows?”

 

“Your fiancee will be the victim of a most unpleasant attack. I have six men watching her house even now, most eager for a chance to...practice their trade.”

 

I caught my breath sharply. “If you kill her–”

 

“Who said anything about killing her? Not all the people in my employ are killers, Doctor Watson. Some are guilty of...other sorts of crimes. I have no intention of _killing_ the charming Miss Marston, oh no. She will suffer another sort of attack, one that will leave her condemned in the eyes of society and wishing she _were_ dead.”

 

He hadn’t come out and said it, but it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce his intent. I’d been at war, and I had seen what it turned men into. I’d seen–and even treated, quietly–the results of brutal rape inflicted by men who were supposed to be honorable soldiers in Her Majesty’s Army upon women who had committed no crime other than to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn’t threatening my Mary’s life, he was threatening her very soul.

 

I half-rose. “You bast–”

 

“Now, now, Doctor,” he interjected. “Do try to remain a gentleman.  If you are well behaved I assure you no harm will come to Mary Marston. I give you my word on that.”

 

As if I could trust his word. But once again, what choice did I have? I sank back down, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

 

“I’m so glad you are willing to cooperate,” Moriarty said sardonically.

 

***

 

I returned to Baker Street after one of the longest nights of my thirty three years, exhausted, filthy, and cold. I’d been to every contact I had in the slums of London, and even some of their contacts, but had turned up no information whatsoever to the whereabouts of John Watson. 

 

Mrs. Hudson met me at the door, sympathy and worry etched on her round features.  “No word, Mr. Holmes,” she said softly. “I’ve had your Baker Street Ireg’lars running themselves ragged all over the city but they’ve found nothing.”

 

It had, of course, been impossible to keep her ignorant of Watson’s disappearance, nor had I really wished to. She was a member of the household, and had shown herself useful in the past, particularly with my little band of street Arabs who carried messages and spied for me. In truth, I think the little urchins were more fond of Mrs. Hudson than they were of me. Understandable: she fed and coddled them; I merely gave them pocket money. Sometimes they told her tidbits of information they neglected to mention to me, or considered beneath my interest.

 

Once inside the warm foyer I stripped off the ragged oilskin coat I’d worn, pulling a grimy knitted scarf from around my neck. “No, don’t take them, Mrs. Hudson,” I forestalled her as she reached for them, distaste written plainly on her face. “I’ll take them upstairs to my dressing room.”

 

“They need washing.”

 

“Precisely why I don’t wish you to get your hands on them, my good woman. It’s taken a lot of careful and deliberate slumming to get them to the appropriate state of filthiness; I don’t want you to ruin them with such a thing as a washing.”

 

She snorted. “Of course. Oh! There’s folks waiting for you.”

 

I paused a few steps up the staircase. “Who?”

 

“A Scottish fellow, quite a dandy. And there’s a lady with him.  I’ve put them in the parlor–you should wash up before you see them. There’s a bath already drawn upstairs. The other two gentlemen are still asleep. Shall I wake them as well?”

 

MacEiver and one of the female Jedi.  “No thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Let them sleep. I’ll ring when I’m more presentable, and you can send the newcomers up to my study.”  I would have preferred to see them at once, but I knew from the steely glint in my landlady’s eye that she would brook no such insult to the house’s reputation. In her eyes, one simply did not receive guests looking like a dockworker, and I was too tired to fight with her about it.

 

“Very good.” She nodded curtly–the closest Mrs. Hudson ever came to a curtsy.  “I’ll get together a light breakfast as well.”

 

“Just tea, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not hungry.”

 

“Maybe you’re not, but your guests might be.  Go on with you now, Mr. Holmes. You smell.”

 

***

 

MacEiver leaned back in his chair, ostensibly relaxed. The expression on his face, however, said otherwise.  “Qui-Gon told us what happened,” he said.

 

“We’ve been looking all night,” Maeve Stonehaven added. Though she was dressed more conventionally this morning, her clothes that of a woman of good fortune, to my mind there lingered about her a distinctly threatening air. I decided then and there that I did not ever wish to be involved in a fight with Miss Stonehaven.  I wasn’t entirely certain who would win. Perhaps my pride suffered from this decision, but at that point, I was less concerned with it than I was with how these people could help me.

 

“As have I,” I said. “And I imagine that your results were the same as mine: negative in the extreme. It is as if John H. Watson, M.D., has ceased to exist.” 

 

MacEiver looked down at his hands. “We will continue to look,” he asserted.  “It is, I believe, partly our fault that your friend was taken.”

 

“True,” I agreed. “But never doubt that Moriarty would have done the exact same thing, provided the opportunity, in this situation or any other.  He is trying to lure me into a trap.”

 

This statement drew startled looks from both Jedi. “I know Moriarty well enough,” I told them. “Too well, perhaps. There is a distinct possibility that this has absolutely nothing to do with the mysterious Mailen, his controller, or the plot to overthrow the world. Moriarty would cheerfully put all that on hold for a chance to capture or kill me.”

 

“You seem very certain of his hatred for you,” MacEiver said slowly. “It seems a lot to risk for a petty vendetta.”

 

“Oh, trust me,” I said with a wide, bitter smile, “this goes far beyond a ‘petty vendetta.’ I’ve managed to make his life _extremely_ uncomfortable several times in the past few years.  I’ve been told–several times and once by the man himself–that Moriarty has no fonder wish than to get hold of me and inflict any number of highly unpleasant things upon my person.”

 

“That’s a rather dangerous emotion to be carrying around,” Miss Stonehaven observed. “Hatred is crippling–especially for a man of Moriarty’s profession.  Eventually it will blind him, and ultimately destroy him.”

 

“I do hope so,” I said fervently.

 

“You don’t hate him in return?” 

 

“I do not claim to be so great a Christian as to assert that I harbor no intense dislike for the man. I despise and abhor his actions...but no, I don’t truly hate him. However brilliant he may be–and he’s probably smarter than I am–he is still nothing more than a criminal. I don’t hate criminals. It’s a waste of time and energy better spent in catching them.”

 

“Logical reasoning,” MacEiver observed.

 

“Naturally.” I steepled my fingers. “We seem to have drifted off the subject at hand.  You came to tell me you’d found nothing about Watson, but that was not your only reason for coming to see me.”

 

Miss Stonehaven lifted her eyebrows. “It isn’t?”

 

“No,” I purred. “Your secondary reason for coming here was to speak to my other guests. You are concerned because you still have heard nothing from Ilein, and you have also not heard from the one you sent to look for him–Derry, wasn’t it?  Naturally, you would come to consult with the only other of your kind on this planet who have the means to reach your ship.”

 

I know it is considered rude to gloat, but I could not help the surge of satisfaction that passed through me as I watched the pair’s expressions grow first surprised, then dumbfounded.  “You seem...surprised,” I added maliciously.

 

MacEiver suddenly let out a low chuckle.  “I suppose I shouldn’t be,” he said.  “You _are_ Sherlock Holmes, after all. What gave it away?”

 

“The comlink on your cravat–I refer to the one cleverly masquerading as a cravat pin–is activated, or whatever you call it. It’s a wonder no one noticed it blinking on your journey here.  I can only assume that you are anxiously awaiting news.  Now, that could be interpreted to be related to Watson’s disappearance, but when one takes into account the not-quite-obliterated writing on your hand–a bad habit, I might add–where I can just make out the letters ‘D-E-R’, where you no doubt wrote a note to yourself to try and contact him again, and finally the fact that Miss Stonehaven’s attire, while quite fetching, shows definite signs of hasty assumption, I can only conclude that there is more on your minds than poor Watson.”

A wry smile tugged at the blonde woman’s lips as she lowered her gaze to the smeared writing on her companion’s hand. “You really ought to do something about your habit of writing on yourself, Taryn. And in the Earth alphabet for stars’ sake!” She, however, began surreptitiously straightening the crooked fit of her pelisse and skirt and tucking away escaped wisps of hair.

 

“So I can see,” MacEiver replied. Then he sighed, and lifted his hand as though to run it through his immaculately dressed hair, thought better of it, and settled for tugging at his cravat instead.  “You are correct, Mr. Holmes. We have not heard from Ilein in almost four days and now, it seems, Derry has vanished as well. Along with the craft that would take us from the surface to our ship. Qui-Gon Jinn and his Padawan are the only ones save our enemy now who have another.  I was hoping to request its use from Master Jinn after we had spoken to you.”

 

“Are you certain that’s wise?” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You now have two people missing in relation to your ship–doesn’t that suggest to you that there is something very wrong with the ship itself? Or at least the area immediately around it?”

 

“It has,” Miss Stonehaven said. “We were planning to send up more than one this time. Even in the event that Mailen somehow has other allies up there and they’ve somehow managed to overpower two separate Knights, no pirate in his right mind would want to deal with three or four Jedi all at once.”  She sounded, I thought, rather distressingly eager at the thought.

 

I shook my head.  “It’s a trap. Whoever is behind this–whether it is Mailen or some other, unknown person (much as I would like to say it’s Moriarty, this truly is beyond his ken) clearly understands how you Jedi function. You don’t think he, she, or it might be anticipating such a thing?  I realize you people are quite...talented, but it only takes one bullet. Or,” I amended with a thin smile, “one blaster bolt.”

 

They both frowned mightily at this remark, but as neither said anything immediately I could only believe they were giving my words some consideration.

 

I continued. “Or perhaps this person wishes you to separate, to pick you off one by one.”

 

Maeve Stonehaven folded her arms across her chest, a steely glint in her green eyes. “And what would you suggest then, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“I believe that Moriarty, though uninvolved in the events occurring off this planet, is still a vital part of this plot. Find him, and we may just find the string with which to unravel this whole tangled knot.”

 

“Not to mention that we will find Doctor Watson,” MacEiver said dryly.

 

I spread my hands. “Two birds with a single stone. Mailen is nowhere to be found; if there is another working behind him, we know nothing at all of this person. I know Moriarty, and though my efforts last night were, admittedly, fruitless, I _will_ find him.  The Professor will learn, to his great chagrin, that there is nowhere he can hide from _me_.”

 

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Miss Stonehaven said cooly.

 

“As your companion mentioned only a few minutes ago, my dear, I _am_ Sherlock Holmes, after all.”

 

Her lips twitched, and she muttered something under her breath. I didn’t quite catch what it was, but had no doubt that it was not particularly flattering to my character. I merely smiled at her.

 

A soft knock sounded on my study door. “Come,” I called.  Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing a heavily loaded tray. I rose quickly to relieve her of its burden.

 

“Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly.  “There’s a message come for you, Mr. Holmes. A policeman delivered it not five minutes ago.”

 

I frowned. “I didn’t hear the bell.”

 

“Well, I was just going out to shake out the rug as he came up the steps.  Here you are.”

 

I took the envelope from her, recognizing my name and address on the outside written in Inspector Lestrade’s painfully neat hand.  While the landlady busied herself serving my guests I broke the seal and scanned the contents. Mrs. Hudson pressed a cup of tea into my hand, which I accepted absently, and seated myself again, rereading the message.  “How interesting,” I murmured.

 

“What is it?” Miss Stonehaven asked, smiling at Mrs. Hudson as that good woman passed her a plate laden with pastry. 

 

“Inspector Lestrade–an acquaintance of mine at Scotland Yard–has just this morning come into possession of a body.  Not an unusual occurrence, at the Yard, but he seems to think that something about the manner of death requires my ‘expert’ opinion.” As I spoke I became aware of three gazes sharpening on my countenance. 

 

“You think it’s related to our current problem.” It was MacEiver who spoke, and it was not a question. 

 

I raised my gaze to his. “It seems...ridiculously possible. I’m not certain why I feel that way, but...”

 

“I think I hear our other guests stirring,” Mrs. Hudson said abruptly. “Excuse me, I must see t’ their breakfasts.” She left, closing the door softly behind her. 

“Are you going to the Yard, then?” Miss Stonehaven asked.

 

“Of course. Even if it were not related, Lestrade is a respected–if sometimes irritating–ally. I should not wish to leave him in the lurch when murder is the subject.”

 

MacEiver nodded. “I want Maeve to go with you,” he said.

 

“Maeve–? Good heavens, MacEiver, I can’t take her to the morgue!”

 

“Other than Teodor–who is otherwise occupied at the moment–Maeve has the most experience with forensic science among the Jedi here.  And if it _is_ related to Mailen and his plot, she may be able to sense other things, through the Force.  Violent death often leaves residual...impressions...clinging to the body.”

 

“I...what do I tell Lestrade? He won’t be pleased.”  I raised my cup of tea to my lips, wishing I could think of a better excuse not to take her along. I hated to imply that I cared what Lestrade really thought.

 

“You could tell him I’m your mistress,” Maeve suggested blandly.

 

I choked, spraying tea, and began to cough.  MacEiver rose to pound me on the back.  When I could breathe well enough to speak again, I fixed the blonde woman with a chilly glare. The effect was somewhat dampened by the fact that my eyes were streaming.  “Even if I subscribed to such a reprehensible practice as keeping a mistress, Miss Stonehaven, I certainly would not choose one so macabre as to find a trip to the morgue interesting.” _And you would not likely be the sort of woman I would choose,_  I added silently. Though I had to admit that I found the Jedi women to be a great deal more interesting than most women of my own world.

 

She shrugged, completely unfazed. “It was just a thought.” Her eyes danced. “‘Reprehensible’ is it? You have an amazingly forward thinking mind, Mr. Holmes. I thought it was just a matter of course, around here.”

 

I opened my mouth to deliver another scathing retort, then realized that she had succeeded in her aim to unnerve me quite completely, and to continue the argument would be to descend into farce. “Touche,” I said, lifting my cup to her in mocking salute.  “What objections Lestrade might have will be futile. You are a client, and you strongly believe this missing body is that of your...husband, brother, father, or whatever.”

 

“Maybe all of the above,” she suggested, grinning in a most unladylike manner.

 

“Lestrade is possessed of a far more delicate nervous system than I,” I said disapprovingly. “Try not to give him apoplexy.” Really, the woman’s sense of humor was vile...

 

“Stop it, Maeve,” MacEiver muttered.

“Oh, all right. If you insist.”

 

“We should go at once,” I said, rising.  “I want to get this done quickly, so I have the rest of the day to plan the next step in the search for Watson. Miss Stonehaven?” I extended an arm to her.

 

“Be good, Maeve,” MacEiver warned.

 

“And if I can’t be good, I’ll be good at it,” she replied glibly. 

 

In spite of myself, I smiled.

 

***

 

There is buried in human nature a deep fascination with death. In Paris, they open the morgue for public display, ostensibly to identify bodies found, and yet crowds flock there. They do not all go to assist the police in identification, but because of this fascination. Macabre? Of course, but hardly strange. In Britain we keep death hidden, like so many other things. The Parisians are nothing if not honest about it.

 

We have been taught to fear death and its trappings, and there is little doubt that certain aspects of it are fear-inspiring, first among them being the basic fear of the unknown. Everyone wants to know what comes after death–hence the current rage with mediums and seances–but no one wants to die. As for myself, I have both seen death, come close to it, and to my everlasting regret dealt it once. I share my views on the eternal with no one, but I do believe that death is only a door, and so I do not personally fear it. Someday I will die, and there really isn’t anything I can do about it, so why should I worry?

 

There is something chilling about a morgue, though.  The death found there is almost always of violent origin, reminding me why I followed the course I did. This impression struck me again as I entered the cold stone building that housed London’s morgue, Maeve Stonehaven keeping pace with my stride. Most of the policemen on duty there recognized me at once, though more than a few puzzled or disapproving looks were thrown in my companion’s direction. All around us hung the miasma of the morgue, of camphor and other chemicals, and beneath those a fainter, unpleasantly suggestive reek.

 

Lestrade met at the door of a small room halfway down a narrow corridor, his narrow features etched with weariness. “Holmes,” he acknowledged, nodding to me. Then his eyes fell on Maeve, and his brows lowered.  “This is hardly an appropriate place for a lady,” he began.

 

“Miss Stonehaven is a client,” I interrupted smoothly.  “And I have reason to believe that this body might belong to her fiancé.”

 

Lestrade snorted. “I doubt it,” he said.  Then he shrugged. “If she wants to come in she may, but if she faints or has a fit of vapors it isn’t my concern.”

“You’re too kind,” the woman replied.  Lestrade appeared not to notice the barely concealed sneer in her tone. Just as well. He was irritable enough as it was.

 

He led us into the small, chill room where a shrouded form lay on the table.  “Where did you find the body?” I asked, removing my coat so it would not hinder my movements and handing it to Maeve. She took it wordlessly. 

 

“Washed up late last night near the Bridge,” the inspector responded. “A constable spotted it and called us up.”  He reached for the top of the sheet covering the body, cast another, uneasy glance at Maeve, and pulled it down to reveal the head and upper body.

 

No sooner had the corpse’s face been revealed than I heard Maeve draw a sharp breath. I glanced swiftly at her and saw tears standing in her green eyes.  

 

My eyes narrowed as I turned to look again at the body. Though death made it difficult to tell for certain, he was probably in his mid-thirties, a few years older than myself. Regular features, elegantly shaped skull covered with short, wiry hair, and skin so dark it was almost ebony.  He looked like some of the Egyptian sculptures I’d seen at the British Museum. At first glance, I would have placed him as a native to north Africa. Maeve’s reaction, along with his build and the callouses on his hands said otherwise.

 

The dead man was a Jedi.

 

 

There was no sign of a wound on his chest, and I glanced at Lestrade for permission. He nodded curtly.  I grasped on cold shoulder in my hands and half-turned the body so I could see his back. 

 

Five days ago, and the manner of his death would have baffled even me. A cauterized wound, with extensive burns in a three inch radius around it.  The dead man had been shot, in the back, with a blaster.

 

 _Well, damn,_ I thought, carefully keeping my face expressionless. I peeked at Maeve out of the corner of my eye. Her eyes were on the corpse, her face grown even stonier than my own.  “Well, Miss Stonehaven?”  The man’s apparent nationality had, at least as far as custom was concerned, blown our ‘fiancé’ story completely out of the water.

 

“It is he,” she whispered, tears running freely down her face now. She fumbled for a handkerchief. “It is my fiancé.” Her face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

 

All right, then. British customs be damned. “I thought he might be,” I said without batting an eye. I’ve never really understood the fuss about skin color anyway. There is no such thing as ‘superiority of race,’ only superiority of mind. If nothing else, it was worth the expression on Lestrade’s face.  “I’m so very sorry, Miss Stonehaven,” I said sympathetically, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

I will give Inspector Lestrade for admirable ability in swallowing what, to a staid citizen of the Empire such as he, was a radical story.  He blinked, sputtered a little bit, then summoned up a stiff but sincere “Most sorry, miss.”

 

“The dead man’s name is Ilein,” I said. “He and Miss Stonehaven recently arrived in London from Ethiopia to meet her family. Mr. Ilein disappeared four days ago, under mysterious circumstances.”

 

Lestrade’s eyebrows performed a dance as he tried to visualize the meeting with the family and failed. If not for the fact that it was a very real corpse before us, I might have found the situation funny.  “He was murdered then?”

 

“I should think that quite clear,” I sniffed.

 

“And you know with what?” A hopeful note appeared in the Inspector’s voice.

 

“I’m afraid not,” I lied. “Miss Stonehaven has told me that her fiancé left behind many enemies in Africa. I believe that some may have followed them. There is so much we don’t know about the cultures of those countries,” I added, waving a hand and counting on Lestrade’s ignorance to gloss over what, to me, was a pathetic story.  “Allow me to handle the case, Inspector. I assure you that if I capture the party responsible I will turn him over to Scotland Yard.”  

 

“I appreciate your expertise, Mr. Holmes, but murder really is a matter for the Yard,” Lestrade protested.  “I assure you, Miss Stonehaven, that we will find whomever is responsible for your, uh, fiancé’s murder–”

 

Maeve lifted her face from her hands, swiped at the tears running down her cheeks, and took a deep breath. “That won’t be necessary,” she said softly, moving her right hand across her body in a peculiar gesture I recognized.  Ben had used the same trick on the bartender at _The King’s Legs_. “Mr. Holmes will handle the investigation.”

 

“Of course,” Lestrade replied, his eyes focused on the blonde woman’s hand.  “Mr. Holmes will handle the investigation.”

 

“Scotland Yard need not get involved.” Her hand moved in the opposite direction.

 

“Scotland Yard need not get involved.”

 

Without the distraction that had been prevalent at the tavern in the form of a noisy crowd, even I could feel the powerful pull behind Maeve’s ‘suggestions,’ and I wasn’t even the focus. 

 

“Thank you, Inspector,” I said hastily, and took my companion’s arm. “We really must be going now.”

 

She resisted for a moment.  “I will send someone later to retrieve the body,” she said, making the odd gesture a final time.

 

“Of course.” Lestrade nodded.

 

I waited until we were outside the morgue before speaking.  “Well done,” I told Maeve. “But I warn you, Miss Stonehaven, if you or one of your people ever tries such a trick on me, you will regret it.”

 

“I don’t think you should worry about that, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You are much too strong-willed for a Jedi mind trick to work.”

 

Her voice was huskier than usual, and it was evident that she was struggling with her grief.  “I am very sorry,” I said again.

 

She clenched her fist over the handkerchief.  “So am I. Ilein was a very good friend.” She sniffled a bit, then bared her teeth. “And Force help the kriffing sithspawn who did this! When I get my hands on him...” she trailed off and took a deep breath, closing her eyes.  When she opened them again, all traces of anger had faded. “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have gotten so angry.”

 

“Anger is understandable, Miss Stonehaven,” I replied.  “A friend has been murdered, after all.”

 

She shook her head. “Maybe in someone who isn’t a Jedi, Mr. Holmes. For us, anger can destroy.”

 

I lifted my eyebrows but said nothing. I was well aware that anger, left unchecked and uncontrolled, could indeed lead one to destruction by clouding the judgement and slowing the brain. However, I had found anger to be useful from time to time, when properly channeled.  But then, I wasn’t a Jedi, either.

 

We began walking.  It was just after noon, and the streets were moderately crowded.  “Do you want to take a cab?” I asked after a lengthy silence. “It’s a long walk back to Baker Street.”

 

She sighed. “I suppose. Taryn needs to know about–about this as soon as possible.”

 

“I agree.” Scanning the street I quickly located an unoccupied hansom and signaled to the driver.  Taking Maeve’s arm again I stepped off the curb and we wove our way through the traffic.  “221B Baker Street,” I told the driver, assisting my companion inside.  He tipped his hat, clicked to his horse, and a moment later the cab lurched into motion.

 

Silence reigned for some time. I occupied myself with replaying everything I’d learned at the morgue, sensing that Maeve did not wish to be engaged in conversation at the moment.  She sat beside me, her face turned away, staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts.  Her eyes still shone with tears. 

 

The grim atmosphere turned my thoughts to Watson. Where was he now? Was he even still in London, or had Moriarty taken him elsewhere? Was he safe, or was my archenemy taking out his frustration on his prisoner?  My imagination, which can be distressingly fertile, provided a number of unpleasant ideas, all highly unproductive and thoroughly distracting.  With effort I reigned it in and focused again on Ilein’s murder.

 

His last known location had been high above the earth’s surface, in the Jedi ship.  I still had little more than a vague concept of this, and wasted a few moments trying to figure out what it looked like, and how Ilein had gotten from there to here.  It was an ultimately fruitless exercise, however, and I discarded it. He was here, that was a blatant fact. He had been dead anywhere between twelve hours to a full day, judging from the corpse’s condition. He had been shot in the back.

 

I paused at this fact. I had not seen a great deal of the Jedi in action, but I had seen enough to realize that sneaking up behind one would be extremely difficult. They sensed other living beings with an intensity I’d never seen. My skills in observation had made me extremely sensitive to those around me, to the extent that I, too, was difficult to sneak up on, but that talent was nothing like what these people had exhibited. Recalling the firefight of two nights before, I remembered how Qui-Gon and his apprentice had seemed to anticipate the enemy’s every move, and their uncanny skill in deflecting enemy fire, how Ben had known how many were outside Shaever’s building.  It was reasonable to assume that Ilein had had the same skills.

 

So how had his killer caught him by surprise?  There were two major possibilities that stood out: one, that the Jedi, whatever his abilities, had simply been caught off guard in ambush, or, second, that he had believed himself safe, because his killer had somehow managed to shield his presence from the Jedi’s senses, or because Ilein had known and trusted the one who shot him.

 

Now _there_ was a worrying thought. Could there possibly be a traitor among the Jedi?

 

***

 

Voices woke me from an uneasy sleep, and I sat up slowly on my cot. When I had at last fallen asleep the cell had been dark; now flickering lamplight seeped through the gaps around the frame.  The voices were arguing about something, and since I really didn’t have anything better to do I heaved myself to my feet and crept to the door, cursing stiff muscles and aching bones every step of the way. Thirty-eight is not considered terribly old in most quarters, but it’s much too old to be attempting sleep on a rickety cot in a cold, damp stone room. Nonetheless, I managed to reach the door without alerting those outside. Pressing my ear to the warped wood I listened intently.

 

“–will have his head for this!” A male voice, deep and strangely accented, but with a curiously whining overtone.

 

“The professor knows what he’s doing, you sniveling weasel. This does not concern your employer.”  I knew that voice, though I’d only heard it a few times. Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s right hand man and a malevolent force in his own right.  Like Moriarty, he had every reason to hate Holmes–particularly since, at their last meeting, Holmes had not only foiled Moran’s plot but had thrashed him thoroughly with the aid of a bullwhip, humiliating him both intellectually and physically. For a man as proud as Colonel Moran, this was reason and more to desire the death of Sherlock Holmes.

 

“It could ruin everything, you fool!” exclaimed the first man.  “That detective is blaster-in-holster with the Jedi, and you can guarantee that he will enlist their aid! If Sardius is discovered too soon, it’s over!”

 

I narrowed my eyes at the speaker’s use of terms unfamiliar to Earth. I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but it didn’t take a great genius to guess that this man was the unimaginative pirate Mailen. 

 

Moran had mentioned an employer, though, and it was clear he was not referring to Moriarty. Ben and Derry had been right: Mailen _did_ have another ally, the shadowy and unknown ‘Sardius’.  At least it wasn’t another name that began with an ‘M.’ One was almost tempted to think the criminals were forming an alliterative club.

 

“Sardius won’t complain when Moriarty hands his enemies over to him in a nice little package,” Moran sneered.

 

“More likely he’ll take his head, if the Jedi don’t hand it to him first. It’s a suicidal fool who takes on _one_ Jedi, let alone a whole damn flock of ‘em.”

 

“You forget that Moriarty has already caught one once, and kept him subdued.”

 

“Luck,” the pirate grumbled. “And he couldn’t have done it without the stuff Sardius gave him.”

 

Moran ignored that. “And your friend Sardius didn’t seem to have any trouble killing that other one–I forget his name...”

 

“Because he had the advantage! That fool up in the ship _trusted_ him, didn’t think he was in any danger. All your precious Moriarty’s managed to do is put that over-clever detective he’s so bothered about on guard–and by default, he’s put the Jedi on alert as well!”

 

“Moriarty knows what he’s doing.”

 

“The hell he does. He doesn’t know what he’s up against.”

There was a scuffle of feet on stone and Mailen let out a startled squawk. I could easily imagine what had occurred. Colonel Moran was not noted for his even temper, and I guessed that Mailen’s feet were now dangling a foot or so off the floor with Moran’s hands clenched firmly in his shirtfront or around his throat.

 

“Listen, you little sneak,” Moran growled, “You may think you have the advantage because you come from another world and have all your little toys to awe the masses, but let me remind you that without Moriarty and myself  you and your turncoat Jedi would be nowhere with this plot of yours.”

 

I caught my breath, not certain I’d heard him correctly. A turncoat _Jedi_? Surely not...but there was no denying what I’d heard. There was a traitor among the Jedi, working with Mailen and Professor Moriarty. 

 

But who could it be?  Perhaps Lord W–? Maybe the taste of power such as found here had engendered an addiction, the desire for a whole world’s worth. Or even MacEiver, though I felt ashamed for considering such a thing, as I liked the man a great deal. It was still possible. Or perhaps the group’s as-yet-unknown leader. 

 

Frustration rose up, bitter as bile in my throat. This information was vital, so vital that the lives of not only the Jedi but also my life and the life of my dearest friend could hang upon it. And I had absolutely no means to warn them. Moriarty had seen to that, effectively nailing my feet to the floor with his sinister promises.

 

I could only pray that Holmes would figure it out before it was too late.

 

 

***

 

“Where are they, dammit?” MacEiver’s fist slammed down onto my table, dislodging a few items perched precariously atop it. They clattered to the floor, distracting him. “Sorry, Holmes,” he muttered, retrieving a battered pocket watch and attempting to replace it on the table. It stubbornly refused to stay put, and he at last gave up and let it slide back to the floor. He seemed embarrassed about his uncharacteristic outburst.

 

“Which ‘they’ would you be referring to?” I asked. “We’re missing several. Qui-Gon Jinn being the most notable.”

 

MacEiver shook his head. “It’s not Jinn I’m worried about. He told me he would not be communicating for several days while he moved the ship to a safer place. And his padawan isn’t concerned, for now. He’d be the first to know if anything were wrong. But the others...”

 

I listed them on my fingers. “Grey Wolf, Ashad ibn Ibrahim, Maeve Stonehaven, and Far Lao.”

 

“Four Jedi in four days,” MacEiver growled. “Vanished without a trace, without even a peep of alarm. And one dead.”  He fell silent.

 

I nodded slowly. The Jedi had held a memorial service for their dead comrade nearly a week ago now, the same day his body had been found. I had seen some tears, other than Maeve’s, but they had hardened into a sort of icy resolve that made my most reserved seem wildly passionate.  The Jedi’s code may have forbade anger, but I could put no other name to their demeanor than cold fury.  I knew, for I felt much the same myself. Over a week since Watson’s kidnaping, and we had gotten nowhere.

 

Worse, all the missing Jedi had vanished while out combing the slums for clues.  I felt the responsibility keenly.  Moriarty was outsmarting me, and I did not like it at all.

 

I rubbed my eyes wearily, trying to recall the last time I’d slept. It had been a day or two. Or three. I wasn’t certain any more. 221b Baker Street had become, in the past few days, the base of operations.  I had not been told the reason why the Jedi did not use Haven instead, an omission I found a little puzzling, since their normal refuge was stuffed with the technology the Jedi were more accustomed to using.  The one time I had asked, MacEiver had deflected the question by claiming it was because they wanted me close at hand to pick my brain about Moriarty. I didn’t believe him for a moment.  I could only guess what Mrs. Hudson thought about the strange guests that now inhabited Baker Street around the clock. She was getting almost as little sleep as the rest of us, running ragged with an endless supply of tea and food.  I could only be grateful that the Jedi were trying hard not to be an imposition, and there was at least one of them with Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen at all times, helping her as far as she would allow.  It made conversation extremely awkward, though, trying to keep up the pretense that everyone was a perfectly normal citizen of the planet.  At least, as normal as anyone associated with me could possibly be.

 

“All those who have disappeared were conspicuous,” MacEiver mused, “those who might appear out of the ordinary in London...”

 

“Not so,” I disagreed. “Maeve looks as English as any Londoner, and dressed as she was when she left she looked no different from any other Whitechapel tart.  There are plenty of Chinamen running the opium dens and working on the docks, as well as more legitimate businesses, so Far Lao wouldn’t stand out in the slums at all.  Both Ashad and Grey Wolf went dressed as gypsies, and but for their height I doubt the average Londoner would think them anything more than one of the many gypsies found passing through at any given time of year.” I rose from my chair and placed both hands on the table.  “Only someone who knew exactly what they were looking for could have seen through those disguises.”

 

MacEiver’s face hardened as I spoke.  “No! Holmes, we’ve discussed this!”

 

“Neither Moriarty, Mailen, nor their men have laid eyes on any of this group but myself, Watson, Qui-Gon and Ben.  Only someone who knew who and what you are– _who is intimately acquainted with you_ –could possibly have given descriptions out and caused the disappearance of those Jedi!”

 

“No,” MacEiver whispered, shaking his head stubbornly. “I won’t believe it.”

 

Now it was my turn to slam my hand down on the table, hard enough to send a stack of papers sliding to the floor.  “You have to face the facts, Rory! You must consider that there is a traitor among you.”

 

“I can’t accept that!” He shouted at me. “I’ve known and worked with these people for almost ten years!  We all believe in the Code!”

 

I straightened.  “I can’t believe you would be so naive, MacEiver.  And you can’t expect me to believe that no Jedi has ever betrayed the Code.  You may have talents beyond normal folk, but you are _not_ perfect.”

 

He would not meet my eyes, staring down at his hands, breathing heavily, struggling to bring his temper back under control.  “They are my friends, Holmes.”

 

“I know,” I replied softly. “I know what it is like. I, too, have been betrayed by one I trusted.  It is a hard lesson to learn.”

 

“You would never believe Watson a traitor.”

 

“No,” I admitted. “I would not. Watson is not capable of it.  But among the many people I have ever met he is remarkable. John Watson is a man of true integrity. And he’s a terrible liar.”

 

“And you don’t think I feel the same about my people?”

 

“No, I don’t,” I said bluntly.  He gave me a startled look.  “If we had to compare your people to myself or Watson, they are, on the whole, more like me. _I_ , MacEiver, am not a man who would be considered trustworthy.  I lie–very well, I might add–and have been known to break a number of laws when the occasion suited my purpose.  I am Machiavellian, to an extent–you are familiar with _The Prince_ , I trust?–and from what I’ve learned of you Jedi you are the same.”

 

MacEiver looked offended. “The ends justify the means? You dare accuse–?”

 

“I said to an extent, MacEiver.  You, me, and, I imagine, most Jedi do draw the line somewhere. We have a moral compass. But in the end, that is the only thing that makes us different from men like Moriarty, and it is a shadowy line indeed.  How easy is it to cross?”

 

MacEiver lowered his eyes. “Too easy,” he whispered. Then, softer, “There is no anger, there is no hate...”

“But there is,” I said implacably.  “What matters is whether or not we act upon it, whether we do something out of anger and hatred, or whether we do something because it is the right thing to do. I believe that one of you has allowed that delusion of ‘no anger, no hate’ to drive him–or her–over the line.”

 

Still he shook his head. My words were hitting home, and cutting deep.  Part of me wished to spare him, but neither Watson nor the missing Jedi could afford for me to stop.  “Denying the anger, bottling it away, pretending it isn’t there only makes it, in the end, a monster.  It erases the line between light and dark.”

 

“No, no it doesn’t! The Code–”

 

“Damn your Code!” I exploded, suddenly angry.  “If this is what you people really believe, then it’s a wonder you haven’t torn the galaxy apart with your arrogance!  ‘There is no anger, there is no hatred, there is no fear...’ That is so much nonsense! There _is_ fear, and anger, and hatred. There is also bravery, and kindness, and love.  That is what defines us.  Deny evil and you deny the good also. There can be no light without darkness.”

 

“You can’t understand!” MacEiver said coldly.  “You are not a Jedi.”

 

“No, and thank God for that.  I can’t believe your Order started out like this.  Somewhere along the line someone decided to take controlling your emotions a step too far into stifling them.  You strive to be emotionless? To be emotionless is to be passionless, and nothing good was ever accomplished from such a philosophy.  Passion _is_ life.”

 

“You’re one to talk. What has Watson described you as? A machine?”

 

“Watson does not really control his emotions, and interprets my behavior according to his.  It is a rare thing indeed for my emotions to control my actions, but I do know to allow them out and about every now and then.  Can you say the same? Are you not angry now?”

 

“Dark emotions lead to the dark side.  If we allowed ourselves free reign, we _could_ destroy the galaxy.”

 

I threw my head back and laughed. “Such arrogance!  Really, MacEiver, you don’t understand human nature at all.  That’s what the moral compass is for.  And here I thought you Jedi were supposed to be wiser than average.  But now I see that you are, after all, only human, and capable of as much blindness as anyone.  That’s really rather refreshing, you know.”

 

“I’m so pleased I can provide you with amusement,” the little man grumbled.. “I...will think on what you have said, Holmes.”  He turned to leave.

 

“MacEiver,” I called after him. He paused at the door, but did not turn around.  “I know how you feel. I truly do.  But you cannot allow emotion to blind you to any possibility, and that is what you are doing.”

 

Now he did turn, his eyes flashing.  “After the lecture you just read me–”

 

“Indeed. And I stand by all I said: you stifle emotion. Control it, MacEiver, don’t kill it.  You cannot, after all, kill what you are.”

 

He left then, his expression thoughtful.

 

***

 

They weren’t locking my door anymore.  It was, I knew, another ploy in Moriarty’s never ending chess game.  He held a terrible threat over my head, and now he was trying to provoke me into doing something rash anyway.  The door was unbolted; there was no guard outside my door. How easy it would be to walk out, to try and sneak away and reach Mary to take her to safety...

 

Your move, Watson.

 

There is a story about a prisoner held by the Spanish Inquisition.  The man had been tortured, but he refused to break.  One night the poor rabbi managed to escape his cell and, heart in throat, had begun the agonizing move toward freedom.  He reached the gardens, the very threshold of freedom, and had just turned his face toward heaven to thank God for his escape when his captors emerged from where they had been waiting all along.  They had turned that most noble of emotions, hope, into an instrument of torture. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Moriarty had read that story.

 

I knew what he was doing, and I hated him for it.  But if Moriarty thought he could goad me into something so rash as another escape attempt, then he had sorely underestimated John Watson.  I would bide my time, hoping for an opportunity to get a message out, rather than try and escape.  If I could find an ally of some kind, who could get word to Holmes, who would take all action necessary to make certain Mary was safe–if I could do that, and somehow make certain that poor child would be safe from Moriarty, I would then make another attempt.  But until that chance arose...well, if Moriarty wanted to leave my cell door unlocked, then I would certainly take the opportunity to explore as much of my prison as I could.  The more I knew, the better help I could be to Holmes and myself.

 

There was no guard outside my cell–but in stopping and listening very hard I could hear sounds of life at the far end of the hall.  If I tried the stairs, which I was certain led out, my escape would no doubt be reported immediately.  Well, no matter.  The hall stretched out in the opposite direction, turning a corner several yards away from my position.  I headed for the turn, every muscle tense, expecting at any moment to hear a shout of alarm.

Turning the corner, I saw another corridor, with a few doors on the eastern side and one at the very end of the hall.  I strained my ears, and heard a faint, unfamiliar sound.  It seemed to be coming from two doors up on my right.  Curious, I began edging forward, and the low murmur of voices was added to the strange sound.  Then, with a chill of horror, I heard footsteps from the hall I had just come from.  I was possessed of the sudden certainty that, if I were caught here, there would be trouble.  Stepping as lightly as possible, I sprinted for the door closest to me, opened the door, and flung myself inside, remaining pressed against the door, listening for signs that my hasty movement had been noticed.

           

They had not; the footsteps continued down the hall and, after a moment, I heard another door open and close with a squeal of rusty hinges.  I sighed, relaxing a little, then turned to survey my surroundings.  It would have served me right to be facing a roomful of startled, humorless guards–after all, I hadn’t considered what might be _in_ the room I’d sheltered in. There were no guards.  But I was not alone.

           

The room was long and low, and very dim.  The only light came from a barred window set high on the wall, from which emanated the sounds of flowing water and a distinctly nasty smell. That alone gave me more information than I’d had in days: the building in which I was being held was on the banks of the Thames.  And since the odor was so unpleasant, it was a reasonable assumption that I was still in London.  (Holmes, had he been here, probably could have told me precisely where we were, right down to the street name, from the smell alone.  I missed him suddenly and fiercely.)  Cots lined the walls on either side of me. Prone forms lay upon them, and beside each cot stood a tall, spindly contraption with a liquid filled bag suspended from its arms.  I stepped closer to examine the one closest to me, and noticed a long, thin tube running from the bag, down to the arm of the cot’s occupant.  I caught my breath as I saw her face.  It was Maeve Stonehaven, the blonde Jedi I had met that night they rescued us from Moriarty’s ambush.  A quick examination proved that each of the room’s four occupants was a Jedi.  They were all unconscious–drugged, probably.  That brought me back to the strange device.  It was really quite ingenious: the tube was plugged into the subject’s veins by means of a needle, held in place by a loose bandage, and the liquid in the bag dripped slowly down the tube and was fed into the body.  I had no idea what the clear, faintly greenish liquid was, but I could guess it was responsible for the Jedi’s incapacitation.

           

Voices outside the room brought me back to myself with a start.  I held my breath, but the men outside passed on.  I dared not remain here much longer, though.  However, remembering our experience with the rescue of Ben’s master, I knew that the Jedi could purge themselves of drugs–if the source was removed.  If I could manage it so that even one of the Jedi had a chance to regain consciousness, there was a good chance they could somehow alert those who were still free.  But I had to do it so that the next person come to check on the prisoners–for I was certain that was what they were–would not notice something was wrong.

 

It proved a simple enough solution.  Removing the bandage holding it stable, I pulled the needle from the woman’s arm.  It was quite thick–sensible, I supposed, since the liquid had to have room to pass into the veins at an appropriate rate.  But it was still only a thin piece of steel when all was said and done.  I placed it point down on the wooden edge of the cot and pressed hard.  The needle bent and snapped. Liquid still seeped from the end, and I could only pray that whomever checked on the Jedi was _very_ unobservant.  I laid the broken syringe back along Maeve’s arm and tied the bandage over it once more, arranging it so that it would appear that the needle had never been removed.  The bandage and light blanket covering the woman’s body would help absorb the now-leaking tube...for a time, at least. 

 

It was a slim chance, but I could only pray that the Jedi would have enough time to pull herself out of the drug-induced stupor to help us all out.  Patting her hand awkwardly, I said, “Good luck to you, lass.”  Then I rose and, after checking to be certain the hall was empty, made my way hastily back to my own cell.

 

All I could do now was wait.

 

***

 

Hours passed. I made no further excursions from my cell, mostly because I doubted I would be able to stay away from the room holding the captive Jedi.  I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, trying not to drive myself mad with endless rounds of ‘what if.’ At the end of eternity, I at last fell into uneasy slumber.

 

I once more stood on the devastation of a battlefield.  As before, I saw in front of me a tall man holding a lightsaber, standing upon the fallen, back turned to me.

 

_“The Dark is rising.  The tide must be turned soon, or it will be too late for this world.”_

 

“Who are you?” I demanded.

 

_“A messenger. The Dark rises over the galaxy.  The battle for this world is here and now.  The wall has been breached.”_

 

The shadowed figure raised his hand, and lightning leapt from it to split the skies.  A howling wind rose up, buffeting me.

 

 _“The tide_ must _be turned, or darkness will engulf this planet. You must fight.”_

 

The words echoed in my head as I sat up, gasping and shivering with cold sweat.  I sat for a long moment, trying to gather my scattered thoughts, waiting for the disturbing vision to fade.  When it became clear that it would not, I settled back to examine it. In my experience, dreams that cling to your mind more than a few moments after waking tend to have a real purpose.  Holmes might sneer at the idea, but I’d been saved more than once in Afghanistan because of a warning dream. 

 

It wasn’t difficult to interpret.  Moriarty and Mailen–and their mysterious friend Sardius–were a serious threat to the independence of my world, and the corpse-littered battlefield a good indication of what things would look like if they won.  They had to be stopped, whatever the cost.

 

Really, though, I’m not sure I needed a dream to figure _that_ one out.

 

I was stiff and sore; it felt as though I had slept for a long time.  I reached for my watch, then remembered with severe annoyance that it had been taken from me. I had a sudden sympathy for prison inmates.

 

Voices and the sound of footsteps caught my attention, and I stiffened as they stopped outside my cell’s door.  Had they discovered my sabotage?  If Moriarty chose, he could interpret that as an escape attempt...

 

The door opened, and Sebastian Moran entered. He was well over six feet, taller than Holmes, and one of the most physically imposing men I’d ever met. He reminded me uncomfortably of a tiger, lazy and somnolent at first glance, but able to turn vicious and deadly in the blink of an eye.

 

“Doctor Watson.” Moran smiled thinly down at me.

 

I eyed him warily, and did not reply.

 

He made a curt gesture. “On your feet. Come with me.”

 

Arguing with him about it was not really an option. He easily made two of me in weight, all of it muscle and bone and not a bit of fat.  He was also unnaturally quick for a man his size.  Any argument I might have with him would be over before it began.  I got to my feet and followed him. A second guard fell in behind me as we left the cell, a blaster at the ready.

 

I desperately wanted to know the reason for this, but as we left the area where I’d been held prisoner, I could think of no way to bring it up without giving away too much. It was just possible that this was _not_ about my sabotage, and I could not take the chance of giving it away if it wasn’t. So I remained silent, nearly out of my mind with worry, and tried to pay attention to my surroundings.  Everything around me confirmed my earlier suspicion that I was being held in a building on the riverbank, probably one of the many ramshackle warehouses near the docks.

 

Moran slowed, and opened a door, gesturing for me to precede him. I hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously, so he planted a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me forward into a long, low room similar to the one that held the captive Jedi.  I noticed little else about the room, for my attention was quickly riveted by the two figures in the room’s center.  One was Moriarty, standing at his ease, arms folded across his narrow chest, next to a chair. In the chair was a man, hands bound behind his back, head lolling in semi-consciousness. A bruise darkened one high cheekbone, swelling around an oozing cut.  A tall man, lean and long-limbed, with narrow, ascetic features and black hair, usually neatly slicked back but now falling over his face in disarray.

 

 

Moriarty spoke. “As you see, Doctor Watson, Holmes has succumbed to his great weakness. Out of his...friendship...for you he has walked into my trap.  Oh, he no doubt thought he was being very clever,” he paused to stare down at his captive, lip curling, “but I have at last proven who is the greater mind.”

 

Holmes stirred, lifting his head. His grey eyes were bleary, and I saw more bruises marring his forehead and jaw, and there were no doubt others on his body, if his torn and rumpled clothing was anything to judge by.  “Watson! I’m glad to see you alive.” He smiled painfully around a cut and swollen lip. “Though I could wish it under more auspicious circumstances.”

 

“Surely you knew it was a trap, Holmes,” I cried.

 

“Of course I did...but I fear I did not expect the ambush from the quarter it came.” He hitched one shoulder upwards. “I fear I have...misjudged the situation.”

 

“A painful admission, no doubt,” Moriarty murmured. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

 

“I’m not dead yet, Moriarty,” Holmes growled.

 

The professor smiled coldly. “A problem soon to be remedied, I assure you.” He pulled a watch from his pocket– _my_  watch, I noticed–and frowned slightly. “Though not immediately. We are a bit behind schedule.” He looked up at his lieutenant. “Moran, take them to a secure room–not the one Watson was in, though.  See to it they are locked up and well guarded, then meet me at the dock. We must get the ‘shipment’ loaded before our associate becomes too impatient.”

 

Moran nodded curtly, and signaled for the other guard to take my arms while he moved toward Holmes.

 

“Oh, come now, Moriarty,” Holmes drawled as Moran hauled him to his feet. “Surely you will do me the honor of at least _telling_ me what you’re up to before you have me killed.”

 

Moriarty regarded him in mild bemusement. “Tell you? You haven’t already figured it out? Really, Holmes, I’m almost disappointed in you.”

 

Holmes shrugged again. “It’s been a bad week.”

 

I watched my friend in growing alarm. His eyes were half-lidded and dull, his movements lacking their usual control and grace, his words their customary sharpness. Some of it might be due to the beating he had clearly just endured, but not all. There was something terribly wrong with Holmes. He seemed depressed, uncaring.

 

 

My heart sank.  For a moment, I had felt a wild hope that this was merely some feint of Holmes’, that he would suddenly spring free and outwit Moriarty yet again.  Now, though, it appeared this was not the case. Holmes had, indeed, made a mistake, and had been caught in Moriarty’s trap.  It was not the first time Sherlock Holmes had been defeated...but this time it was almost certainly the last.

 

We were dragged out of the room and back the direction I had come with Moran, though not back to my original cell. Instead we were taken to a slightly larger room up the hall from it, and shoved inside. Moran cast us a contemptuous glance as he slammed the door shut, leaving us in near darkness, the only light coming from a grate on the outer wall, near the floor.  Holmes, who had stumbled and fallen heavily to the stone floor, dragged himself up into a sitting position and sat, his back against the wall, arms draped loosely across his drawn-up knees, staring at nothing.

 

“Holmes...”

 

“I’d rather not discuss it just now, Watson,” he said dully.  “Suffice it to say that my own stupidity has gotten us both killed.”

 

“But, the Jedi...”

 

“Are unable to help us now.”

 

“No, listen...” and I told him of the overheard conversation, of the captive Jedi, my sabotage. He seemed to be only half listening, and I felt frustration growing in my breast.  “Don’t you see, Holmes, we have a chance. We have to get out, if only to warn them about the traitor!”

 

“I already knew about the traitor, Watson. It did no good whatsoever.  The Jedi cannot help us now.”

 

I sank back against the cold stone wall, bitter disappointment replacing the frustration.  My sabotage must have been discovered then. Or the rest of the Jedi had been captured.  Perhaps there were other rooms, all holding unconscious figures whose veins were plugged into sinister, liquid-filled bags.  Worse, Holmes seemed to have completely withdrawn, so caught up in his defeat.  There seemed to be little hope.  I drew my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms about them. They ached; damp always wakes up old injuries. We sat there, in sullen silence, for what felt like an eternity. It must have been only a couple of hours, though, by the movement of the light on the floor. 

Then the lock in the door scraped, breaking the heavy silence.  I jumped, certain that now was the moment of our execution. The door opened, and a figure stepped inside, a man in a shabby coat with a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes, a blaster in one hand. He paused in the door, surveying the room, then raised the blaster. I tensed, but the sizzling bolt struck neither Holmes nor me, but something in the upper corner of the room.  A second shot struck a point somewhere near the floor near the grate. 

 

Holmes sprang to his feet. “It’s about bloody time,” he hissed. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”

 

The man raised his head, and I saw that it was Ben Kenobi. Odd, that I had not recognized him before; the hat didn’t conceal _that_ much of his face. Then I remembered what he was, and wasn’t that surprised after all.  “Sorry,” he said. “I wanted to be certain I wasn’t seen.” He tossed the blaster to Holmes, who caught it deftly, and pulled my Army revolver from his coat pocket. “Glad to see you well, Doctor,” he said.

 

I glared at Holmes. “Why the act?”

 

He was busy checking over his weapon. “Hm? Oh, that.” He jerked his head at the scorched spots on the wall and ceiling. “We were being watched–what was the phrase you used, Ben?”

 

“Bugs. Small listening and recording devices.”

 

“Yes. I wanted Moriarty to be thoroughly certain that he really had caught me in a mistake. I’m sorry, old man,” he smiled apologetically at me. “But–”

 

“–I’m a terrible liar,” I finished for him. “Yes, I know.” I shook my head.  “I forget, sometimes, what a convincing actor you are.”

 

“The day I cease to convince you, Watson, I shall retire. That’s a promise.”

 

I snorted. “Then I hope you expect to work until you’re eighty; I’ll never cease to be gullible.”

 

Holmes’ hand settled on my shoulder.  “I am very grateful to find you well, Watson,” he said softly.  “I’ve been terribly worried.”

 

“I’d have been out of here long before, save that Moriarty found an effective way to keep me in my place.” I told him briefly of Moriarty’s threat to my fiancee.

 

My friend’s face grew hard as he listened.  “We will ensure Mary’s safety as soon as we are free,” he promised.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Ben shifted anxiously. “We should go,” he said. “We haven’t the time to stand about chatting.”

 

“Right you are.” Holmes hefted his blaster. “Let us be gone.”

 

I grabbed his arm. “What about the captives?”

 

Faint shouts echoed up the hall to our ears, followed by the sound of blaster fire. Ben grinned. “What captives?”

 

“You freed them?”

 

“That’s what took me so long. The bad guys had discovered your sabotage; Maeve wreaked some serious havoc before they got her down again.  I got there, and stayed to assist a couple in purging their systems of whatever it was they were being drugged with, so they could help the others. Now let’s go.”

 

The halls outside were empty, but the sounds of battle drifted up from the general direction of the room in which I’d found the other captives. I could just imagine the sort of chaos that could be wreaked by four irritated Jedi.  It was a happy thought, really.

 

We turned away from the battle; Ben explained that his freed colleagues would make their way out on their own, likely after pausing to creatively destroy sections of Moriarty’s base. 

 

“I thought your Order did not indulge in anger,” I remarked as we ducked behind a stack of crates to wait for a shouting group of henchmen to pass, on their way to the battle still raging below. 

 

“It isn’t anger,” Ben replied calmly. “It’s instructive chaos.  Moriarty and his goons will likely think twice before taking a Jedi captive again.”

 

“No, they’ll just kill you next time.”

 

“They would try. Come on.”

 

It appeared as though we would make our escape unchallenged. Moriarty’s henchmen seemed wholly preoccupied with the escaping Jedi (how _did_ they manage to create that much chaos? There were only four of them.) and paid little notice to the fact that their other prisoners were also loose.

 

Upon reaching the main floor of the warren-like warehouse that was Moriarty’s stronghold, we discovered why.

 

“Ah, Holmes.” Moriarty glanced at his– _my_ –watch.  “I was expecting you a good ten minutes earlier.”  He stood between us and the door, Colonel Moran at his side, flanked by seven very large, tough-looking men.

 

“Yes, well, you seem to be having a bit of trouble down below,” Holmes replied lazily. “Didn’t want to interfere.”

 

For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of anger in the crime lord’s pale eyes, but it was gone so quickly I couldn’t be sure.  “That will be taken care of shortly.  My men are very competent.” He flicked the watch case closed and tucked it back into his coat pocket. “But I’m hurt to see you leaving so suddenly. You don’t care for my hospitality?”

 

“I’m so very busy,” Holmes replied. He appeared content, for the moment, to play along with the Professor’s banter.  “And you know how things get when you’re away, they just pile up until you can never get ahead.”

 

“And what sort of things are those?”

 

“Why, stopping you of course,” came the pleasant response.

 

Moriarty chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that sent chills down my spine. “And how do you intend to do that? You admitted yourself that you do not know my entire plan.”

 

“Actually, you were the one who claimed I didn’t,” Holmes said with a smile. “I only asked if you would tell me.”

 

An odd expression passed fleetingly across Moriarty’s face.

 

Holmes folded his arms across his chest, assuming a pose of casual arrogance. “You are allied with the pirate Mailen and the Jedi traitor, who goes by the name ‘Sardius.’ With the technology they provide you, you intend to overthrow first the British government, then the rest of the world.  Your Jedi friend, of course, intends to set himself up as ruler–and you plan to be the power behind the throne until such time as you can betray him and take his place. Mailen is expendable, and I rather doubt he will live long after the takeover.  You are providing Sardius with local supplies–drugs, men, and so forth.  He thinks he’s very clever, exploiting your organization, using your connections to build his power base, and thinks that he can read all your intentions. You see, he plans to remove you as well as Mailen as soon as he is secure–but you’ll betray him before that, won’t you? I wonder who would win that fight,” he added musingly.  “Sardius is a Jedi, of course, with strange powers–but he’s not as intelligent as you are.”

 

Moriarty had gone a little gray, but his voice was steady and as cold as ever. “You’re guessing, Holmes.”

 

“Am I?”

 

“You don’t know who the traitor is.”

 

“Oh, but I do, Moriarty,” Holmes purred. “I know who he is, just as I know why the Jedi are _really_ here.”

 

Beside me, Ben gave an odd twitch. Glancing at him, I saw him hastily smooth a most disturbed expression off his face.

 

“Well, you _are_ clever, aren’t you, Holmes,” Moriarty snarled.

 

“Oh, it was elementary, my dear Moriarty. It’s not the most subtle plan I’ve ever come across. Really, for you it’s almost... _clumsy_. I expected more finesse from a criminal mind such as yours.”

 

The Professor’s sallow face twisted in rage, and for a moment I thought he would fling himself at Holmes. He quickly managed to bring it under control, though his eyes still blazed with hatred.  “I suppose you aren’t so disappointing after all, Holmes, though I fear it will do you no good. You won’t leave here alive, and your friends on the outside will join you very soon.” He made a curt gesture to his men. “Kill them.”  Moran and the others pulled guns from their jackets.  I lifted my own weapon, ready to take at least a few of them with me.

 

Then from above dropped to figures with glowing lightsabers, landing directly in the middle of Moriarty’s group. Chaos erupted, and the thugs scattered, most of them missing a hand or arm. Moriarty and Moran managed to scramble away from the one-sided battle without serious injury, but stood staring in horror as MacEiver and Shannan finished their short work.

 

Holmes was grinning openly now. “Really, Moriarty, did you think I wouldn’t expect you to expect me to escape?  A trap within a trap within a trap–convoluted, I admit, but I thought you’d appreciate it.”

 

Moriarty, clutching a long burn on his arm, let out a howl of absolute fury.  “Moran–kill him!” Then he turned and fled, Moran placing himself between us and his master’s escape route.

 

Shannan raised her lightsaber. “Do you really intend to die for him, dog?” she asked.

 

Moran’s lip curled. “You don’t frighten me,” he snarled.  Then he lifted his hand. It was curled into a fist, thumb pointing upwards.  “Holmes is mine.”

 

Shannan’s eyes narrowed, then widened in shock. “N–”

 

Moran’s thumb pressed down, and the air around us tore apart in a shocking explosion of heat and noise.  I was knocked off my feet and thrown several yards forward to land painfully amidst splinters and broken glass. A hollow roaring filled my ears, and I could taste blood where I had bitten through my lip.  I lay there for a long moment, thoroughly disoriented, unable to feel any pain beyond the rushing that filled my head.  At last I collected my scattered wits enough to roll over and half-sit up, blinking against the ruddy, searing light.

 

The far side of the warehouse was engulfed in raging flame, the heat rolling from it so intense it was almost a physical blow.  All of us, even Moran, had been knocked over by the force of the explosion. Ben, who had been closest, was busy stripping his smoldering shirt off before it could burn him, and MacEiver was cradling an unconscious Shannan’s head.  Holmes was still down, but conscious and struggling to get up, the back of his shirt burned almost as badly as Ben’s, bleeding from dozens of shallow cuts and scrapes.

 

Moran, furthest from the explosion, was quickest to recover. He was on his feet even as I took in the condition of my companions, crossing the littered floor toward Holmes.  I shouted a warning just as the big man aimed a terrific kick at my friend’s ribs. Holmes managed to roll aside, and the edge of Moran’s boot only grazed him.  He scrambled to his feet, shaking his head woozily.

 

The two men began to circle one another warily. I raised my revolver to shoot Moran and end it now, only to discover it was no longer in my possession. The explosion had knocked it out of my hand, and now I could not find it.  I looked back to the imminent fight, and saw a flash of steel: Moran now held in one hand a long-bladed knife.

 

Ben saw it as well, and reached down to pull up his trouser legs. I saw he was wearing the boots he’d worn when we first found him, and from the top of each he drew a pair of daggers. “Holmes!” he shouted.

 

I saw Holmes glance at him out of the corner of his eye. Moran, also alerted, lunged forward, intending to kill Holmes before he could arm himself. Holmes, of course, dodged. Spinning out of the way, he used his momentum to snap a kick at the Colonel. Even I, inexperienced in the ways of unarmed combat, could see that it was meant more to drive him back and away than to do any real damage. It succeeded, and Ben flipped one of the knives he held. It flew, glittering in the firelight, straight for Holmes’ head. He snagged it out of the air just in time to dodge Moran’s next charge and, flipping the dagger over so the blade ran along his forearm, slashed at his enemy. Moran was forced to move back once more, or have his throat opened up. Holmes followed up with a kick aimed at the Colonel’s knee, and though Moran–with uncanny quickness–avoided having his knee dislocated the kick caught him on the upper thigh and sent him staggering backwards.

 

Ben stood poised, the second blade in one hand. As soon as the Colonel fell away from Holmes the young Jedi sent it spinning toward my associate, who had clearly been expecting this, for he caught it as easily as he had the first.  Now two blades glittered in the lurid flames as he waited for Moran to move.

 

In the years I have known Sherlock Holmes, I have never seen him engage in an extended physical battle with anyone. I knew he had studied many different forms of combat, including several from the Far East, and he had in the past exhibited a physical strength remarkable in a man so slender, but his usual weapon of choice was his mind, not his fists.  That night, amidst the hellish surrounds of a burning warehouse, I saw a different side to my friend.  All his grace and economy of movement came into full play as he circled Moran, knives flashing and weaving in the sooty air. The Colonel, for such a large man, was unusually light on his feet, and though he did not have Holmes’ fluid grace he moved with the deadly quickness of a cobra, darting forward and back, seeking for a weakness in his opponent’s defenses.

 

He seemed to spot one, and lunged. Like Holmes, he held his knife in the reversed grip of an experience knife-fighter, and as he moved he twisted his body, bringing his knife-arm forward in a backhanded thrust, putting the weight and momentum of his body behind it.  Rather than moving back, Holmes turned into the attack, along the knife’s path. He pushed Moran’s blade out with his off-hand, the ring of steel on steel loud even above the roar of flames. With his right hand he slashed up and over their locked arms, and I saw a line of blood appear on the Colonel’s cheek as he turned his head to avoid the blow.  Moran snarled and turned sharply, dropping to one knee. His knife was still fouled with Holmes’, allowing him to pull my friend off balance and send him tumbling to the floor. Holmes wasted no time in rolling out of Moran’s attack range and propelling himself back to his feet.  He spun and caught Moran–still getting to his own feet–on the side of the face with a foot. Before he could follow up with his knives Moran caught him with a powerful blow to the side with his fist.

 

Back and forth they raged, neither seeming to gain the advantage. Holmes had esoteric training that few Westerners possessed, but Sebastian Moran was a killer born, honed in the wastes of Afghanistan and by years of brutal domination in Moriarty’s underworld kingdom.  He was almost as fast as Holmes, and unlike my friend had no reservations whatever about killing.  I could only stand and watch, both horrified and fascinated at the spectacle. The Jedi watched also, their faces expressionless masks. The tension in their bodies, however, stated clearly that they would intervene the moment it looked as though Holmes were in serious trouble.

 

For a moment the combatants broke apart, chests heaving, sweat dripping from their faces.  The gash on Moran’s face still bled sluggishly, running down his cheek and neck to stain his shirt collar.  He also sported a few other cuts, mostly on his forearms, but none serious. He had repaid Holmes in kind; my friend’s shirt was tattered and bloody from cuts on both forearms, his left shoulder, and a long gash across his back. The cut on his cheekbone had been reopened by a glancing blow from Moran’s fist.

 

“This is pointless, Moran,” Holmes said. “The warehouse is falling down around our ears.  I don’t know about you, but death by burning is not high on my list.”

 

“Perhaps not on yours, Holmes, but _I_ wouldn’t object to seeing you burnt to a cinder.” Moran grinned, his face a bloody mask.  “Of course, if you ask nicely, I’ll slit your throat and spare you the trouble.”

 

“You’re too kind,” Holmes drawled. He feinted, as though he would make an overhand swipe.  Moran fell for it, raising an arm to block the knife. My friend dropped to the floor instead, and swept his leg out, catching the Colonel behind the knees. Moran toppled with a startled cry.  Before he could begin to recover, Holmes was back on his feet and on top of him, one of his knives at the big man’s throat, the other held ready to plunge into Moran’s chest, one knee bent across his rib cage, so that, should Holmes drop his full weight onto that knee, every rib in the Colonel’s chest would splinter.  “Really, Moran, hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to chat with your opponent?”

 

Moran, his face livid beneath blood and soot, merely swore at him.

 

“Surrender, Moran. You’re going to jail.”

 

“Slit my throat, you damnable coward!” the Colonel raged.

 

Holmes sighed. “ _Must_ you be so difficult?” Without waiting for a reply he reversed the knife he held above Moran’s chest and slammed the pommel into the man’s groin. While the Colonel was thoroughly distracted by _that_ tactic, my friend brought the hilts of both knives down hard on his temples, rendering him unconscious.

 

I winced. “That was a little...brutal, don’t you think, Holmes?”  I had no fondness for Moran, but I’m not sure I would ever have considered hitting him quite so literally below the belt...

 

Holmes got to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth.  “Sportsmanship has very little place in a real fight, Watson,” he said.  “You fight to win, whatever it takes.”

 

MacEiver was helping Shannan to her feet. “So why didn’t you do that earlier?” he asked.

 

“For the same reason you didn’t intervene in the fight. It wasn’t necessary until that point.” Holmes shrugged. “I do have _some_ modicum of sportsmanship–I am still British, after all.” He looked down at Moran, then at the flames blazing all around us. “We should leave, quickly. Pity we can’t just leave him here...but I wouldn’t wish death by conflagration even on Sebastian Moran. Someone help me pick him up.”

 

I compliantly walked over and lifted the unconscious man’s legs.  “What are we going to do with him, though?”

 

Holmes picked Moran up by the shoulders. “I wish we could take him with us, and hand him over to Lestrade–but I fear we haven’t the time.  Moriarty must be stopped.”

 

“We could take him with us back to Haven or Baker Street,” Shannan suggested.  “Tie him up, and deal with him later.”

 

Holmes frowned. “I don’t think we can afford to lose time carrying him,” he said. “We need transportation, and explanations about his presence would be awkward at best. We should certainly tie him up, but leave him somewhere around here. Perhaps I can send Lestrade after him soon.”

 

With the Jedi fanning out around us for defense we left the blazing warehouse.  As we had thought, we were in the docks district, and it was simply a matter of getting to the edge, where transportation was more easily found. There were some few of Moriarty’s henchmen who attempted to stop us, but most were interested only in fleeing. The Jedi made quick work of the stubborn minority.

 

Two streets from the warehouse we met up with the other Jedi. They looked as tattered and exhausted as we, but there were grins of fierce triumph on every face. “What took you so long?” Maeve demanded, tugging up the sagging neckline of her low-cut dress. Her three male companions–Grey Wolf, Far Lao, and the Arabic-looking one whose name I couldn’t pronounce–watched this process with interest.

 

“Some of Moriarty’s men wanted to discuss our departure,” Holmes drawled. “Moran in particular thought we should stay.”

 

“I assume you brought him around to your point of view?”

 

“Oh, he got the point eventually. You?”

 

“They got the point almost immediately. Now, if you don’t mind, we ought to leave before the fire department arrives. And the police. We left a number of bodies behind us, and policemen get excited about unexplained bodies for some reason.”

 

We almost made it. Most of the district’s occupants were more interested in the fire, and those left of Moriarty’s gang seemed to have discovered pressing business elsewhere.  As we reached the edge, however, we ran into someone who found us more interesting than either fire or immediate survival.

 

He was a small man with watery blue eyes and lank brown hair. He blinked constantly and rapidly, and had the air of a man who felt himself much wronged by the world.  “Hold it right there,” he said, holding up a hand. I blinked; it was the same whining, accented voice I had listened to from inside my cell.

 

“Mailen,” Ben said in a conversational tone. “So good of you to save me the trouble of chasing you all over the planet.”

 

“Save it, whelp!” Mailen’s pale eyes glittered. He had the look of someone under the influence of drink–or drugs. He pulled his other hand from his pocket. “You’re going nowhere!” In his trembling hand, the pirate clutched what appeared to be a ball of metal. His thumb hovered above it, in a position I recognized.

 

“Oh, hell, not again,” Shannan muttered from behind me.

 

“We’re all gonna stay right here,” Mailen declared. “‘Til my _partner_ gets here.”

 

“Or what?” Ben demanded. “You blow us up with a thermal detonator? What about you, Mailen? You’ll be smeared all over the walls, too.”

 

“Maybe. Better than facing Sardius with the news I let you get away. He’ll take a long time killing me, I do that.”

 

“Nice partner,” Maeve observed. “Are all your friends that pleasant?”

 

“We’re not your enemies, Mailen,” MacEiver said, passing his hand in front of his chest. “We can protect you from Sardius.”

 

For a moment, it looked as though it might work. Mailen’s rapid blinking stopped for a long breath, his mouth hanging slightly open.  Then he shook himself and bared his teeth. “Nice try, Jedi. But it ain’t gonna work.”

 

“Are you _sure_ about that, Mailen?” Maeve asked, grinning wickedly.  The pirate blinked at her, confused.

 

A blaze of blue light filled the narrow street, followed by a sharp whine. Mailen blinked a few more times, then his eyes glazed over and he toppled forward. Shannan darted forward to catch him, easing the thermal detonator from his flaccid hand.

 

“It’s about bloody time you two decided to make an appearance,” Grey Wolf said in an aggrieved tone.  “What took so long?”

 

“Someone arranged a diversion for us when we tried to leave Baker Street,” Qui-Gon said. “Then _she_ insisted we clean up before we came out here.” He gestured to the figure standing behind him. Little was visible in the shadow and smoke but a stocky shape holding what appeared to be a blaster

 

“It’s my house. I don’t like bodies–or bits of them–lying around unattended,” his companion replied. She stepped forward, lowering the weapon in her hand.

 

As I heard the voice–so familiar, and yet foreign–my world reeled.  I reached out and grabbed Holmes’ arm. I heard him catch his breath in a strangled gulp, and knew he was a stunned as I.  As I saw her face, I was suddenly aware that nothing in my world would ever be certain again.

 

She stood confidently, wearing Jedi robes of some dark blue material. A pair of lightsaber hilts adorned her belt.  Physically, she was the same, though she wore her hair in a long braid rather than her usual bun.  All at once, the Jedis’ reason for choosing Baker Street as their base over their Haven became clear.

 

Mrs. Hudson eyed Holmes and I with an expression of mingled amusement and regret.  “I’d hoped you would never have to know,” she said. “But I’m afraid our common enemies forced the issue.”

 

***

 

The timely arrival of Lord W– and several of his carriages solved the immediate problem of transportation. They were driven by those Jedi who had not been captured or on the rescue team.

 

Mrs. Hudson and MacEiver rode with Holmes and me. I found that I was acutely uncomfortable in her presence. The shock had yet to wear off.  I wasn’t sure it ever would. At Mrs. Hudson’s directions, we were to go to Haven, even though there was almost certainly a ‘surprise’ waiting there for us, courtesy of the traitor.

 

Ah, the traitor. I was fairly certain I knew who it was–not through any Holmesian deductions, but the simple process of counting noses. There were now only two Jedi not with the group. One was dead: Holmes had seen the body. The other...

 

“I wouldn’t have thought it would be him,” I muttered.

 

Holmes lifted his eyebrows. “Why not?”

 

“He seemed so–so friendly. Cheerful, really.”

 

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “I have long feared there was something going on with him. I confess, though, I did not believe he would fall to the Dark Side.”

 

Derry. The traitor was Derry, that round-faced, amiable Jedi who had greeted me with such cheery good-will the night of our rescue. It was difficult to believe.  He had been much absent from Baker Street of late, though I had thought nothing of it. None of us had, really. The Jedi had been in an out so much on various tasks that no one had really marked his absence.

 

Until tonight.

 

My associate lounged indolently in his seat, fingers steepled. “Didn’t you?” he asked. “I am not particularly surprised.”

 

MacEiver’s gaze was accusing. “You knew?”

 

“Not the precise identity, but if you will recall I have believed in the existence of a traitor all along. However, while planning this rescue I sat down with Ben and profiled all the Jedi here.  All the Jedi I knew of,” he amended, shooting an unreadable glance at Mrs. Hudson.  “In the end, the only one to fit the mold was Derry. Outwardly eager to help, but reclusive. Do you know the reason he was sent here to Earth, MacEiver?”

 

MacEiver glanced at Mrs. Hudson. “No, I don’t.”

 

She folded her arms. “But I did. I should have seen it coming.”

 

“Well,” said Holmes. “I rather imagine you had other things on your mind...such as maintaining your cover with a houseful of your subordinates underfoot?”

 

I frowned. Holmes’ voice was even, but there was an odd note in it.  The dim interior of the carriage made reading his expression difficult.

 

“This is hardly the time or the place to discuss that, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said reprovingly.

 

“Oh, I’m not really interested in discussing it.”

 

He was angry, I realized. Very angry. I suppose I couldn’t really blame him; if I stopped and considered it, I was a bit angry myself. Mrs. Hudson had been a trusted part of both our lives for many years, only to learn now that she had, essentially, been a lie.

 

“Mr. Holmes–”

 

“What I _am_ interested in discussing, Mrs. Hudson, is the truth. The real reason Derry has ‘fallen to the Dark Side’.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Don’t you?” Holmes was purring now, at his most dangerous.  I put a hand on his arm, in warning. He was in a rare mood, and there was no telling what he might say. He shook my hand away. “MacEiver knows what I mean, don’t you?”

 

MacEiver twitched. “What?”

 

“I think you’d better explain, Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said coldly, all pretense of politeness dropped.

 

“I once asked Qui-Gon Jinn what, precisely, the Jedi were doing on a planet so far from your Republic’s borders. He told me a very smooth story about the ‘Galactic Anthropological Society.’ I didn’t quite believe him. Oh, it’s a plausible story, and it may even be partly true–but that does not really explain the need for so many Jedi.”

 

“If you spoke to Qui-Gon, then no doubt he also explained that this planet is a refuge for Jedi in difficulties,” MacEiver said, his voice stern.

 

“Indeed. And yet, there is more.  For example: the mysterious manner in which my informant Rat died. You were disturbed by it. Why? Because he was killed by a Jedi, at a distance, with the Force. And yet you were absolutely certain none of your people was in that area that night. We discussed this, if you will recall, the first time I suggested there might be a traitor.”

 

MacEiver shuffled his feet on the carriage floor and said nothing.

 

“But Rat was, beyond doubt, killed by a Jedi, or someone very like a Jedi,” Holmes continued. “From what you have told me of this ‘Force’, such action must be performed at fairly close range, within line of sight. Unless...” He trailed off. “Do you care to finish that ‘unless’, MacEiver? Mrs. Hudson? No? Very well, I shall finish it for you.

 

“Such a thing cannot be done at far range unless, somehow, the Jedi has enhanced his abilities.”

 

“That’s impossible,” MacEiver said stoutly. Mrs. Hudson remained silent, her eyes intent on Holmes.

 

“You’re lying, MacEiver. Abilities can be enhanced, temporarily, through the use of certain substances.  I know this only too well, MacEiver, for I am an occasional user of the drug known as cocaine, which heightens ordinary senses. Cocaine, however, is addictive at the very least. Watson is convinced there are other dangers, as yet unknown. I begin to agree with him.” He shot a wry smile at me.

 

“So.” Holmes crossed one knee over the other and clasped his hands over them. “The major purpose the Jedi have in being here is this: there exists on this planet a substance–what, precisely, I do not know–that can enhance Force abilities.  You are here to study it, determine if it is of use or not. I can tell you right now that you should give it up; it is far too dangerous.”

 

“And what would you know of it?”

 

“I know that Moriarty had, under Derry’s direction, been feeding into the veins of the captive Jedi a strange substance. That substance served to keep them sedated, and, I think, to somehow give Derry access to their abilities. I believe he has been tapping into the potential of Moriarty’s employees, by feeding them the same drug in smaller amounts. That would be why you have had such difficulties sensing the presence of his henchmen. All this he has used to enhance his own power, and in so doing he has driven himself mad.” He raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson. “Am I not correct?”

 

“How did you learn all this?”

 

“Observation. Deduction. Really, Mrs. Hudson, my brains do not dribble out the bottom of my skull simply because I’m in the presence of alien beings. Derry has allowed the lure of unearned power to drive him mad.”

 

“Mad, but not stupid,” Mrs. Hudson amended.

 

“No, not stupid. Well, not entirely stupid. You must admit that his intelligence is on a serious downward spiral, though.”

 

“That’s all well and good,” I said, “but what is he going to do now? Moriarty is all but out of the picture, as is Mailen. His plans are in shambles.”

 

My friend slouched down in his seat, steepling his fingers. “This is the trickiest part,” he admitted. “Derry is desperate now, and desperate men are unpredictable.”

 

“Not so unpredictable as that,” MacEiver said. “I’ve a good idea where he’ll head...and I’d lay credits that you do as well, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Holmes’ lips drew into a thin smile. “Suppose you tell me, MacEiver.”

 

The counterfeit Scotsman snorted. “He’ll do all he can to lay his hands on as much of this...drug...as he can, and make for the nearest hyperspace capable ship.”

 

“Either the Jedi ship, or the stolen one. Now...” Holmes turned his gaze to Mrs. Hudson. “Tell me about the ‘drug.’”

 

“It’s an element, actually, a trace element. We haven’t really even named it officially.”

 

“I believe Maeve and Shannan have nicknamed it ‘go-dust,’” MacEiver muttered.

 

“It caught the attention of a Force-sensitive GAS employee when the planet was first discovered. Since she had trained at the Jedi Temple, she passed word of it along to the Council,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “MacEiver and myself were the first dispatched here to study it, and eventually others were sent, both to evade difficult problems and to search the rest of the planet for deposits.”

 

“There aren’t many, are there?”

 

“The strongest concentration we’ve yet found is here on the British Isles. As I said, it’s a trace element, existing only in very small amounts. We’d hoped to find applicable uses for it, but...” she broke off with a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid these events have proved beyond a doubt that it is a grave danger. It didn’t seem so when we first began testing it, but it seems that there have been some strange and unexpected side effects of late.”

 

“Perhaps in its purest form the element presents no danger,” Holmes suggested. “But once exposed to air, to other elements, impurities, what have you...”

MacEiver grunted in agreement. “Possibly. Whatever the case, it has augmented Derry’s abilities to a dangerous level. And to allow him to feed of others’ Force potential...!”

 

Holmes sat up, suddenly intent. “So where would Derry be getting this element? Where would he go now that his base here has been compromised?”

 

“Where did he have his stolen ship land?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “Scotland, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he has a stash there.”

 

“Moriarty mentioned a shipment before,” I said. “Derry may be transporting a stash from London to Scotland. That is,” I amended, “if he managed to get it underway.”

 

“To be honest, I don’t know if he did or not,” Holmes admitted. “He’s just seen the greater part of his scheme go up in smoke; will he turn tail and find a hole to hide in or will he press on, hoping that it will still succeed?”

 

He sighed then. “It doesn’t really matter, as much as I dislike saying so. Moriarty cannot be our main concern at the moment.”

 

“Derry is,” Mrs. Hudson agreed.

 

“What do you think awaits us at Haven?” I asked.

 

MacEiver shook his head. “Who can say? Wait and see.”

 

***

 

I have to say I was somewhat disappointed. Granted, I no more wanted a full-out fight or nasty trap any more than any other relatively sane man, but somehow I expected...more. I mean, this was a man who had plotted to take over the world. One comes to expect certain standards; Moriarty, for example, would never have disappointed.

 

“Huh.” Shannan shook her head as the image stopped speaking. Ranting, actually. “Derry’s really gone over the edge.”

 

Mrs. Hudson had quietly told Holmes and I that the miniature, ghost-like image of the renegade Jedi was a previously recorded message. While I could not hope to understand the technology that produced a three dimensional, moving replica of the recorder, I did understand phonographs...and this was close enough.

 

I won’t repeat the message word-for-word, but the general gist went something along the lines of: “Curse you for foiling my plans!” It wasn’t even original. I heard the same garbage from villains in poorly written melodramas.

 

I winced, Holmes rolled his eyes, and in the corner of the room Grey Wolf and Maeve succumbed to a fit of snorting giggles. While it was somewhat disconcerting to see the tall, imposing pseudo-Indian in such a state, I couldn’t help but sympathize.

 

The door opened and MacEiver trotted into the room, cradling something in his hands. While the rest of us were subjected to Derry’s histrionics, he had gone prowling. From the grim expression on his face, it was well he had.

 

“Bomb,” he said succinctly, and the grins on our faces faded. “It was wired to all the systems in the building,” he added. “If it had gone off, it would have taken most of the street with it.”

 

“Vindictive fellow,” Holmes observed. “And a reminder to us all not to underestimate him. Derry is now a desperate man, well on his way to being cornered. I’m certain you are all familiar with the saying about cornered rats?”

 

This was met with thoughtful–and somewhat humbled–silence.

 

“It is most likely that he will be heading for Scotland, and a ship,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But there is a small chance he remains here, in London, or somewhere nearby. I propose we divide into teams, one for Scotland, the other to search for him here or to intercept him should he double back.”

 

The others nodded slowly in agreement. I glanced at Holmes. He caught my eye, and I read in his gaze a deep concern. A slight jerk of his head, and I knew that he wished to speak with me privately as soon as possible. I gave the slightest of nods, indicating that I understood.

 

The Jedi never noticed.

 

***

 

“This expedition concerns me greatly,” Holmes said. We had managed to slip away from the group with virtually no notice; the Jedi were too caught up in their planning.

 

“Derry must be stopped,” I replied. “But I think I understand why you are concerned. They don’t seem too worried, do they?”

 

He shook his head. “I don’t pretend to understand completely all the issues here...but I cannot deny solid fact. Among those facts is that Derry killed a contact of mine from an unknown–but apparently impossible–distance. This drug, element, whatever it may be has augmented his powers far beyond what they should be.”

 

“I’m sure they appreciate that fact, Holmes,” I suggested, but I didn’t sound convincing even to myself. Despite the presence of the bomb, despite all that had happened the Jedi seemed awfully blithe about intercepting their renegade.

“Hm. I’m not so certain, my friend. How long has Derry been feeding off the ‘potential’ of others? How much power did he glean from those Jedi he held captive? They seem fine, true...but how much, Watson? How much do they even know about this substance?”

 

Holmes ran both hands through his hair. “I feel helpless in this, Watson,” he continued. “I don’t understand this ‘Force’ or what these people are, truly. Perhaps I am overreacting, overestimating Derry’s threat.”

 

“I know how much you, of all people, would hate to hear this...but perhaps you should trust your instincts in this.”

 

A brief, luminous grin flashed across my friend’s face. “In any other situation, Watson, I would call you on that remark. But I cannot help but agree with you.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I like to claim that I never rely on instinct or supposition, but...”

 

“But you do, more often than most realize,” I finished.

 

“Indeed. I suspect that you, my friend, realize more often than others...but you keep it out of your stories.”

 

I shrugged. “The Sherlock Holmes that inhabits the stories I sell to _The Strand_ is not the Sherlock Holmes I call friend, the man standing here with me. That Holmes is a virtual machine, a man who disdains all emotion.” I smiled. “He is, I think, the lesser man.”

 

Holmes reached out to grip my shoulder. “I thank you, Watson,” he said. “There are, I think, few men so fortunate as I in their friends.”

 

I clapped his shoulder in response. “So...what is to be done about Derry?”

 

Holmes pursed his lips. “I’m still working on that. For now, I think it best we go along with whatever plan the Jedi have concocted. However...” He frowned.

 

“What is it?”

 

“I wonder, Watson...might I borrow your revolver?”

 

***

 

Considering the situation, the journey to Scotland was, if unorthodox, swift and uneventful. Derry had not, in his haste to escape, disabled the swoopbikes stored at Haven.  Holmes turned a bit pale when he learned how we were to travel, but made no remark.  For my part, I was a bit excited at the prospect of flying once more. There were men all over the world trying to solve the problem of flight, and were close to success, but it would be many, many years before the people of Earth might come close to what the swoopbikes could accomplish. I counted myself lucky to have a taste of what coming centuries might bring.

Although the journey was accomplished in a matter of hours, the need for secrecy made it quite uncomfortable. To avoid detection we had to fly very high up, where the air was thin and bitterly cold. Although we all bundled up against it, the chill still worked its way through layers and the wind of our passage tugged at my helmet, making my neck and shoulders ache with the effort of holding my head steady.

 

I rode with MacEiver this time, while Holmes rode behind Grey Wolf. Though he had said nothing, the Jedi had apparently sensed Holmes’ discomfort at the impending flight and had chosen as his flight partner one who was cautious and steady in the air, not given to wild antics as some of the others were.  Accompanying us were Mrs. Hudson, Shannan, Maeve, and Far Lao, as well as Ben and Qui-Gon. The others remained behind in London, there to disperse and seek for Moriarty, his men, and anything else related to Derry’s operations.

 

We left late at night, timing it so that we would arrive at our destination around dawn. I was disappointed at making the flight in darkness, unable to see the land below. Unable to see anything but darkness and the occasional star (it was cloudy) I dozed off.  The events of the past week had been wearying beyond belief, and rest had been in precious short supply.

 

I was awakened by MacEiver’s voice, speaking softly to me by means of the helmets’ comlink. “Doctor...look.” I blinked awake, wishing I could rub the sand from my eyes...then promptly forgot all about my discomfort.

 

The sun rose over Scotland, tinting mountains and hills with rose and lavender, chasing away the dark and clouds of the night. Trees and homesteads rolled by below, tiny and insignificant from our perspective. Streams and lakes glittered like polished steel in the growing light.

 

“ETA five minutes,” said Mrs. Hudson’s voice. “We’re setting down a few miles from the landing site...keep your eyes open, people. I doubt Derry is alone down there.”

 

I craned my neck, trying to see better. We were over mountains now, the sparse settlements vanishing behind. The machines began to descend, the mountains growing large around us.

 

“There’s Mailen’s ship,” MacEiver said, lifting a hand from one of the bars to point. “See it?”

 

I followed the direction of his finger and felt my jaw drop. The gleaming silver shape clinging to the mountainside made the swoopbike I now rode look perfectly ordinary. Finding words to describe it is difficult, since I had never seen its like. It reminded me of nothing so much than a great bird of prey, like Sinbad’s Roc, or perhaps a dragon of ancient legend. It was easy to believe that such a machine could indeed fly through the vast oceans of space.

 

We set down on a relatively flat spot–though the ground was still rough and uneven.  I took off my helmet, tugging at the collar of the unfamiliar clothing the Jedi had given me. They seemed to be of leather–though I could not be sure–and were far more form fitting than I was accustomed. I felt painfully aware of my stocky form.

 

Holmes, tall and slender, looked well in them, as sleek and deadly as a big cat. The illusion was marred a bit by the fact that, as he dismounted from the swoopbike, his steps were rather unsteady and he was very pale. He quickly regained his natural grace, however, and made his way to my side. “Here we are, Watson,” he said softly. “I cannot but feel that we walk into a trap.”

 

“I know,” I agreed. “But anticipating a trap makes it that much less effective.”

 

“True enough.” A line appeared between his eyebrows as he surveyed the area. “And yet...” He shook his head. “Here.” He pressed something into my hand. I looked down and saw that it was a blaster, tucked into a holster and belt. A glance showed me that Holmes already had one strapped at his hip.  “Be ready for anything...but whatever you do, Watson, do not engage Derry.”

 

“I’m hardly suicidal, Holmes,” I replied dryly. “I’ve seen the Jedi fight, too. And this,” I held up the blaster, “is impossible not to notice when fired.”

 

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Holmes said myteriously.

 

A small stir among the Jedi caught our attention. “I do not wish to harm Derry, if at all possible,” MacEiver was saying.

 

“You can be damned sure he’s going to be trying to harm _us_ ,” Maeve retorted. “MacEiver, I’m sorry, but this plan of yours is ridiculous. Derry isn’t going to just give it up because we ask him nicely.”

 

The red-haired Jedi frowned. “And what do you suggest, Maeve? That we waltz in there, lightsabers blazing, and kill him? That isn’t the Jedi way. We must try to turn him back.”

 

I could see agreement on the faces of a few of the others, but also indecision and sympathy for Maeve. Perhaps Holmes and I had missed something when we had been making our own plans. Qui-Gon, standing on the fringe of the group with his apprentice, looked grim.

 

Maeve rounded on McEiver, her expression stormy.  “You can’t save Derry, Taryn.  Not every situation can be solved peacefully.”

 

“You’ve been warned about this attitude before, M-”

 

“Yes, I know.  It’s why I’ve been exiled to this backwater planet on the edge of nowhere.  But that doesn’t make it any less true.  You can’t save someone who doesn’t _want_ to be saved.  You all felt it.  Derry doesn’t regret what he’s done, only that you didn’t stay blind to it longer.  Sure, he did not kill myself or Far Lao when he had the chance, but that wasn’t out of any concern for us.  Derry didn’t slip or slide, he turned and willingly embraced the Dark Side.”  Her green eyes blazed as she struggled to calm herself. 

           

“He killed Ilein,” she added, in a voice that chilled me.

 

“I know you and he were ... close-” Taryn started to say.

 

“We were. And I want to see his killer brought to justice!”

 

“Jedi do not seek revenge,” Mrs. Hudson reproved.

 

“Nor do I.  I seek to stop a murderer before he kills again, or before he does something worse.”

 

“I respect your feelings, Maeve,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But I feel that walking in there with the intent to kill him is not the way to solve this. We must do all we can to bring him back.”

 

“But–”

 

“Final words, Maeve,” the other woman said sternly. “If you cannot follow them, then I suggest you return to London.”

 

Maeve subsided, but her eyes flashed. She was clearly unhappy with the decision...and truly, I could not but agree with her. Derry had committed murder for his own profit. Perhaps he was now mad, but it was a madness he had deliberately chosen somewhere along the way...and men of that sort do not take well to those who try to “redeem” them.

 

“Be ready,” Holmes warned again, very softly.

 

***

 

I am no stranger to campaigning. Though I served as a surgeon in the Army, and so marched toward the back of the columns, there was no such thing as a noncombatant in the Afghanistan campaign. We had our riflemen, trained snipers and skirmishers who scouted around the main column, but in the harsh and alien landscape of that desert land they more than met their match in the wily natives. The Afghani tribes fought to a code much different from our staid and traditional tactics, and showed little mercy even toward the medical column that trailed behind the main force with the wounded and dying.

 

Scotland was not the bleak, rocky wastes of Afghanistan, but on this chilly morning it was terrain as fraught with potential hostility as that distant place. I kept my weapon loose in its holster, and wished for a good Baker rifle rather than the unfamiliar blaster. Even my revolver, small and short-ranged as it was, would have been preferred–but Holmes had that tucked away somewhere, for what purpose I did not know. Every nerve stood on a knife’s edge, and my eyes strained for anything remotely out of place that might signal an attack.  The landscape around us was silent–a sure sign that somewhere ahead the enemy lay in wait.  Everything was breathless, hushed in anticipation of battle.

 

The Jedi spoke not at all, but moved with easy, flowing grace. If they felt the same tension as I they gave no sign. The unease in my heart grew; more than ever I agreed with Holmes that they were far too confident.

 

When it came at last, it was not in any form we had anticipated. Instead, I felt the air around me grow heavy, and my steps slowed. I felt as if I were wading through honey, and my lungs ached with the struggle to draw in air turned suddenly strange.  The weight increased, and even the Jedi began to slow. My knees nearly buckled at one point, but a pair of hands caught my arms and hauled me upright. It was Holmes, displaying once more his remarkable hidden strength. Even so, he moved with nearly as much difficulty as I.

 

Eventually we were forced to a halt altogether as the air became a near-solid entity and movement became an impossibility. Though the Jedi appeared outwardly unconcerned there was uneasiness in their eyes.  I tried to speak, to ask a question, but found myself unable to force the words through the thickened air.

 

Then _he_ appeared, from some distance off, strolling toward us as nonchalantly as if he were on a Sunday walk in the park. He drew to a halt a few yards from the group, grinning like a naughty child at his handiwork.

 

“Like flies to honey,” Derry said. “How obliging of you.”

 

Mrs. Hudson managed to speak, though not without some difficulty. “Derry...this is pointless. What do you hope to gain?”

 

He snorted. “I should think that was rather obvious. An entire world, at my whim and whimsy, ripe for the taking? It certainly beats the hell out of hiding here like a condemned rat, unable to glory in what we are.”

 

“The Jedi Order is not about glory, Derry,” Qui-Gon said. “And what are you going to do with an entire world? You’re only one man.”

 

“Perhaps...but I am a man with a god’s power.” Derry laughed unpleasantly. “See how helpless you are in the face of my power? No one will dare stand against me!”

 

“Derry, you know that the Dark Side will only destroy you in the end.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was pleading. “Come back to us. It isn’t worth it.”

 

“Oh, but it is,” the renegade purred. “Perhaps it will eventually destroy me...but frankly, my dear, I don’t care. I will enjoy the power and glory that is mine for as long as I can.”

 

“We can’t let you do this, Derry,” Maeve said.

 

“And what are you going to do to stop me?” he sneered.

 

All at once, the pressure holding us in place vanished, and lightsabers flared to life. Derry reeled back, face pale. I could only guess that the Jedi had made a concerted effort to break his hold.  They advanced on him in a half-circle.

 

“Turn away from the Dark Side,” Qui-Gon said. “There is still hope.”

 

Derry’s face twisted with rage. “I abandoned hope when I was left to rot on this backward planet! The Council will never let us come home, and I’ve had enough of playing to the whims of those who care nothing for me!”

 

Holmes’ hand closed around my arm. “They will have to kill him,” he murmured. “I’ve seen men like this before. He turned his back on their Code with deliberate intent. There is no coming back for him.”

 

Looking at the ugly hatred on the renegade Jedi’s face, I could not but agree. I like to believe that anyone can be redeemed, that no matter what evil has been done a man might return to the path of righteousness. After all, that is the very core of Christian belief...but I also knew, in my heart, that such redemption must come with choice, and that though God may forgive, there does come a point of no return, where a man has made so many evil choices that he will never find the way back. Indeed, when a person has reached that point, they no longer _wish_ to come back. They have made the choice, and embraced the darkness. I did not know the twisted path that had led Derry to this, for I did not know him...but he had all the hallmarks of a man who has passed that fatal point.

 

The Jedi, it seemed, did not share this belief. While the credo that no living thing deserves execution is admirable sometimes that is not the practical solution. Perhaps they had a chance of capturing Derry, of imprisoning him somehow–but how much destruction would he cause before they succeeded? How many lives might he take?  The expression in his eyes promised death.

 

He proved it a heartbeat later. As the Jedi closed in, weapons ignited but with little intent to harm, Derry erupted into action. Actually, the _ground_ erupted, throwing the Jedi back and driving me to my knees. Holmes staggered, but kept his feet. I allowed him to pull me back up, and we stared in mutual horror at the chaos the renegade unleashed.

 

It was as though the gates of Hell had suddenly opened. The ground beneath us heaved and bucked, sending up showers of earth and stone. A howling wind tore at our clothing, drawing streaming tears from stinging eyes. The Jedi were tossed about in the center of the fury, unable to cope with Derry’s ferocious power.  Holmes had been right; Derry was far more powerful than any of them had supposed, and the potential stolen from Moriarty’s men and the captured Jedi had stayed with him.

 

The tempest ceased for a moment–though I sensed it was only drawing another breath to howl–and Holmes crawled over to Mrs. Hudson, who was struggling to her hands and knees. “You must kill him!” he said, his voice harsh.

 

She shook her head. “Jedi do not kill unless there is no other choice. We must try to turn him back.”

 

“Dammit, woman, he isn’t _going_ to–” Holmes’ words were cut off as Derry attacked again.

 

Horrors and nightmares charged us from every side. This time, at least, the Jedi were a little more prepared, and battled the creatures. They might have been half-illusory, but they caused very real damage. A monstrosity snagged Maeve’s arm with a taloned appendage, opening up a long, bloody gash.  The lightsabers had but minor effect on the creatures.

 

Strangely, though, they seemed to ignore Holmes and I. Creations of Derry’s mind and will, they were focused–as he was–entirely upon the Jedi. To the renegade, neither myself nor my companion were considered a threat. We were ordinary humans, incapable of attacking a Jedi with much success.

 

I raised my blaster, intending to fire at a horror threatening Far Lao, but Holmes knocked my hand down. “Don’t attract their attention,” he hissed.

 

“But–”

 

Even as they battled, the Jedi pleaded with Derry, trying to coax him back from the Dark Side. He laughed at them, and hurled lightnings. Shannan was hit, and fell heavily to the ground. Grey Wolf threw himself on top of her as the nightmare creatures closed in, claws reaching. Ben, the youngest and most impetuous (and, from the looks of things, the fiercest swordsman) hurled himself at Derry, only to be flung back by an invisible hand. He crashed into the rock face of a hill and crumpled. More horrors, shrieking eagerly, moved in to rend him, but Qui-Gon was there, standing over the body of his fallen apprentice, his face serene but his lightsaber whirling in a deadly dance.

 

Belatedly, the Jedi seemed to come to the realization that the only way they were going to survive this fight was to kill Derry. Far Lao was engaged in keeping the creatures off Grey Wolf and Shannan as Grey Wolf tried to regain his feet. Shannan remained a still figure on the ground. Mrs. Hudson, MacEiver, and Maeve closed in on Derry.

 

It was a futile effort. Dark energies swirled around the renegade, lancing out to knock his attackers back.  One formed itself into the shape of a clawed hand and closed around MacEiver’s throat, lifting him into the air, struggling wildly.

Movement next to me caught my eye. I looked to see Holmes draw out of his leather jacket my little Army revolver. “Don’t move, Watson,” he said. I could hardly hear him over the raging battle, but he formed the words clearly enough so that I could read his lips.  “Don’t think, don’t feel...don’t even breathe.” I sensed that he was talking more to himself than he was to me.

 

He raised the revolver. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated so widely the grey was swallowed up. His face was  white as death as he took aim. The hand holding the gun was perfectly steady, but his free hand was clenched into a fist so tight the bones showed yellow beneath his skin.

 

It should have been a near-impossible shot, with that little revolver. But Holmes, maddeningly talented as he was, was one of the best shots I had ever met. Moreover, the consequences that would follow should he miss were such that...well, he _couldn’t_ miss. There was only this one chance.

 

The sound of the shot was lost in the chaos around us, but I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and the hammer move. My gaze flew to Derry, to the center of the terror.

 

He stood unmoved, triumphant in his power, and I felt the world reel beneath me.

 

Then...

 

An expression of pure shock crossed his face. He stood, frozen thus, for an endless moment. For a moment, the chaos intensified, howling in hellish fury around us. I was knocked once more to my knees, but did not take my eyes off Derry.

 

Then the maelstrom faded...Derry’s knees buckled...the chaos subsided.

 

The renegade Jedi fell forward on his face. Holmes had made the shot, and taken him straight through the temple.

 

The revolver lowered, then fell from Holmes’ fingers. I hauled myself to my feet yet again. Holmes was, if possible, paler than before, his entire body rigid. He met my gaze, and for a moment his customary mask slipped, and I saw in his eyes the horror he felt at the cold, deliberate murder he had just committed.

 

“There was no other way,” I said softly. “You knew that.”

 

“I know,” he whispered. “I knew it from the start.”

 

“You should have let me do it,” I told him.

 

Holmes shook his head, a short, violent movement. “ _No._ You couldn’t have made the shot.”

 

He did not say that it was also to protect me, or the innocence he felt I had, that he so cherished and relied upon to keep his perspective true. He didn’t have to. Though I knew that I did not really have that innocence, I was well aware of his faith in it, and how important it was to him. In a way, it was a token of how deep our friendship ran, that he was willing to make such a sacrifice for something so very intangible.

 

There was nothing to say. There had been no other choice–Derry had seen to that. I reached out to grip Holmes’ shoulder briefly, wordlessly. He nodded, took a deep breath, and fixed the mask back in place.

 

We turned to face the Jedi, and the consequences of what Holmes had done.

 

***

 

The silence was almost deafening. Derry’s Force-storm died as suddenly as its master, leaving us all blinking in startlingly bright sunshine. The nightmare creatures dissipated into nothing. The battle was over.

 

The Jedi stood as though frozen. I couldn’t blame them; I felt much the same. Holmes was rigidly silent, turning away from me, from the others, to stalk off a few paces, putting distance between himself and Derry’s body.

 

Grey Wolf was the first to move, dropping from his crouch onto the ground and pulling Shannan’s still form to him. My heart leapt into my throat at the sight of her still, white face and the blood darkening the leather of her clothes. Collecting my scattered wits, I forced my feet to move, hurrying to her side.

 

Ugly gashes marred her shoulder and left side, but her pulse was strong. Some stitches, some rest, and she would be fine, albeit scarred. I moved on to Ben, still lying against the rocky hill face, his master bent over him. He was in better shape than Shannan, but there was a goose-egg lump on the back of his skull. I patted Qui-Gon’s shoulder reassuringly and looked around for more wounded.

 

MacEiver leaned heavily against Mrs. Hudson, massaging his throat. He waved away my inquiries, indicating that it hurt too much to speak. Bereft of patients to treat (not that I had any supplies on hand anyway), I turned my attention to the dead.

 

Maeve stood over Derry’s body, head bowed, the lines of her face rigid. I drifted to her side, uncertain as to what I ought to do.  Instead I stood silently, wishing there was something to say that wouldn’t sound trite or, God forbid, callous.

 

“He used to be a good man,” she said at last, her voice so low I had to strain to hear it. “So merry, always ready with a joke...how could he become this?”

 

“Only the most foolish of us pretend to understand the human mind,” I replied quietly. “None of us can really know the path another treads...Are you glad he is dead?”

“I am glad the murderer has been stopped,” she said. “I believe that death was the only way justice could be served...but I grieve for the man he once was. He–he was a friend, once. He and Ilein...” Maeve’s voice trailed off. She turned her face away to hide the tears filling her eyes.

 

I heard footsteps crunching on rock, and looked up to see Holmes returning. He was still very pale, but his jaw was set in a determined line.

 

Mrs. Hudson helped MacEiver to a convenient rock and turned to my associate. “You interefered, Mr. Holmes.”

 

His nostrils flared, but his voice was even.“I don’t recall any requests not to.”

 

“You know we did not wish to kill him.”

 

“Frankly, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t see where he left you any choice. You seemed unwilling to do the deed, however, so I took matters into my own hands.”

 

“You’re very good at that.”

 

“That, Mrs. Hudson, is my job.” His lips curled into a thin smile. “If you have any complaints, I shall be happy to receive them at my office. And I’m sure we can settle the matter of the bill another time. And the rent.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “This is hardly a jesting matter, Holmes.”

 

“Who’s jesting? Incidentally, I charge extra for killing–particularly when those whose duty it is refuse to do so.”

 

“How dare you!”

 

“I dare a lot, Mrs. Hudson, particularly when the fate of _my_ world is at stake.” He drew himself up, his silvery eyes flashing. “I will not stand idle in the face of destruction while _you people_ dither over your dubious morality.”

 

“So you justify killing?” MacEiver demanded hoarsely.

 

“If the murder of one man will save the lives of millions, then yes, I will. I will take that stain to save them. Can you not do the same? Or does your precious Code forbid the protection of innocent life?” Holmes swept an arm out, encompassing the lands around us. “How many would have died for your hesitation? How secret would your presence here have remained, had Derry lived and escaped?”

 

“You don’t know–” MacEiver began hotly.

 

“Oh, enough!” I snapped. They turned to stare at me. “You cannot claim that you intended to spare him, at the end. But you delayed, and courted defeat. You left Holmes with no other choice. You ought to be thanking him for saving your sorry hides, instead of berating him in the name of a Code that is not his!”

 

Far Lao’s soft voice broke in. “He is right, my friends,” he said to Mrs. Hudson and MacEiver. “I know you both take Derry’s fall very personally...but a Jedi must know when to admit failure.”

 

Qui-Gon, helping his groggy apprentice to his feet, nodded. “The Code is important to us all, but necessity is a part of the Living Force. To refuse to take a life when doing so would save the lives of others is folly, and pride. Have you been so long in exile that you have forgotten this?”

 

MacEiver paled, and bowed his head. Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Indeed, Master Jinn...you are correct. And...I did fail, with Derry. I have become too settled in my life here, too content.” She turned back to Holmes, her eyes full of sorrow. “Forgive me, my friend. Forgive me for placing you in this position.”

 

Holmes was silent for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “Forgiveness I can grant, Mrs. Hudson. I do not like having blood on my hands.” He looked away, up at the ships clinging to the mountainside above us. “But if this world is safe, then the price I pay is worthwhile.”

 

“Force grant it to be so, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“God grant it be so, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes murmured.

 

***

 

Later, as I lay in my bed at Baker Street, trying to sleep, I wondered if anything would ever seem normal again.

 

Sleep took me at last, and once more I found myself standing once more upon a field. Not a battlefield this time, but a quiet stretch of cemetery. The rising sun poured gentle, misty light over sculpted angels, and ahead of me I saw again the shape of a tall man. He stood, his back to me, at a new grave. I approached slowly.

 

 _“The Dark has failed,”_  he said softly. _“The wall stood against the siege.”_

 

“Who are you?” I whispered.

 

He turned his head a little, but I still could see no face. _“This battle has been won. You fought valiantly, John Watson. This world is safe...but the war for the galaxy is yet to be fought._ ”

 

I started awake, gasping for air. Another dream. Was it prophetic? That seemed absurd. I shook my head, trying to clear the disturbing dream away. Did they mean anything? Or was it simply my brain, trying to cope with the utter strangeness that had overtaken my life these past weeks? It seemed unlikely that I would ever know...and it hardly seemed worth my while to fuss over it.  Grumbling a little at the whole situation, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

 

***

 

How does one return to a smaller world? My eyes had been opened to a galaxy of possibilities, much of it beyond my ken.  Our housekeeper and landlady was a warrior from another world, one of many walking among us. Holmes and I had faced a threat greater than any we had ever conceived. That threat was defeated, but its influence would long be felt. We could not forget.

 

Still, it seemed that our bizarre adventure was over. Qui-Gon and his apprentice made their preparations to leave, the pirate Mailen secure in their custody. The other Jedi drifted back to their various posts, a little more scarred and (I hoped) a little wiser. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson spent a week edging around each other uncomfortably before reaching a silent, mutual agreement to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary. I spent some time concocting a suitably exciting (and heavily edited) explanation for Mary concerning my disappearance. Lestrade continued trying, futilely, to corner Holmes into telling him what was _really_ going on. Holmes ignored him. It did nothing for their relationship.

 

I found myself compelled to record the events of this most bizarre case, though I knew that it would never see the light of day. There was a far bigger world out there than I had ever imagined.

 

Somehow, though, I found that to be comforting. We were not alone in our struggle against evil.

 

And so I lift a toast to the faceless ones out there among the stars, fighting the same battles Holmes and I and so many others fought here, on this lonely little planet. Hail to the fighters, wherever–and whatever–you may be.  Keep up the good fight, for in the end, darkness must give way to the light.

 

The End.

 


End file.
